The New Barmaid at Beno's.

Free Lance, Volume IV, Issue 164, 22 August 1903, Page 17

The New Barmaid at Beno's.

FAXCY a giil like her shngin' round drinks in Beno's bai " said Xi Ashley. Can't understand it," commented Billyho Carter. "No more can I." Nobody on River Bend could understand it. Mary Sable was not a bit like the girls of River Bend. She was tall, and slim, and daintily shaped, had small, nanow, hly-hke hands, and her feet were hke the tiny mice of the poet, playing bo-peep under her wellcut skirt. She was handsome, too, and, despite her obvious efforts to please the customers, could not disguise the fact that she was unused to such company. Mary was not more than eighteen, and gnlish at that, and hefr manners weie extremely correct, her language so superior that a sentence from her lips was sufficient to strike the whole bni-ioom dumb for five minutes. ' I dnnno anythin' about her," said Ben Quigley, in explanation to the bo.is. "She comes un to me an' she sez 'Say, mister, do you happen to bo wantin' a rattlin' good barmaid ?' sez she, 'coz if yer do,' she sez, 'I'm ver man ' Jest hke that, she sez it. You know her style." The boys knew her style was as different from Ben's attempted interpretation of it as it possibly could be, but did not interrupt the story. " Well, I sez,' " continued Beno, " I ain't wantin' no barmaid particlai.' An' I threw away me quid, seem" she was a lady, 'but I'll see the missus ' So I calls the missus, and Matilda Quigley looks the girl up an' down. 'You don't look much like a baimaid, my girl,' sez Tilly. 'Please don't mind what I look like,' answered the girl. 'I'm honest, I'm decent. I'll do your work well.' '' ''That was good enough, wasn't it, chaps 9 Me an' Tilly talked it over for a few minutes. 'Take her,' sez Tilly, 'she'll make business.' 'Done,' I sez, an' we takes her. No more questions asked." Mary Sable brought quite a new atmosphere into Beno's bar. For a time it was an atmosphere of restraint, but the girl soon contrived to let the men see she was no humbug, and ended bv setting them at their ease. She was certainly not an experienced barmaid, and Tilly Quigley had to teach her a great deal, and put her up to all the tlrioks of the trade. "I'll never teach you my art o' puttin' two inches o' froth on top o' three inches o' beer in a five-inch pewter, I can see that," said Tilly. "Oh, I'm not so sure, Mrs. Quigley," Maiy replied. "I am getting on very well! Ashley told me yesterday that the.ie was more collar than body on his beer. I felt quite complimented." "Froth is very profitable," whispered Mrs. Quigley. "You know, half our profit is in the froth, and the _ art of pumping a pint of beer is to give twothirds of a pint, an' yet make it look like a pint an' a half." "I shall remember, Mrs. Quigley. But no matter how little I give these poor fellows, they won't have the courage to complain." "Yes, they respects you. Somotimes, my dear, I thinks they respects you too much." "Oh, Mrs. Quigley." "Yes, they respects you too much to get a bit screwed in your presence an' that ain't for the good of the house." "Veiy well," laughed the girl, "I shall tiy to live it down." ''Of course we don't expect you to be fiee with 'em, no more free than you feel inclined for, but if you could let 'em see that a man bein' a bit merry won't shock you a great deal, tha'd help trade." Tilly Quigley was a good soul in her peculiar way, and took a motherly inteie&t m the barmaid, and, moreover, her hotel was as respectable and wellconducted as any home in River Bend But, for all that, she had an idea that the chief object of her existence, and her husband's existence and the existence of all the people for miles around was to improve the bar business at the River Inn. Mary promised to do her best, but there was always a suggestion of acting in her manner, although much amusement lurked in the corners of her dark eye. River Bend was peopled with agriculturists of the smaller sort, timber getteis, and a few miners — a mixed population, and River Bend itself was rather a sad township How Mary Sable had found her way there was a mvstoiv to all Tilly was curious, and quite an unabashed grand inquisition, but all she could gather was that Mary had found herself suddenly compelled to earn her own living, had remembelred River Bend, having passed through the township once when she was a girl, and thought it very pretty and peace-

tul, and, believing she could do better tha.ii in the city, she had made her way to the place as quickly as possible. Well, you was lucky, my dear," sand Mrs. Ben, "an' I'll admit we was lucky, too, 'cause you have improved trade, thciie's no denying that." Mary certainly had improved trade, she was a ounosity, and was so ladylike and charming — and now that she ff as accustomed to the place and the people, so friendly with the men, without leaving for anyone of them an opening for anything approaching familiarity. When there were drunks present, Quigley mounted guard in the bar, insisting' upon orderly conduct, and when disorder came in spite of him, Mary retired from her post, and was not seen again fotr the evening, Tdly taking henplace, Mrs. Quigley having no very pronounced objection to the sayings and doings of the gentle inebriate. Mary had one admirer who ventured to offer her attentions. The others, as a ,rule, were content to admire at a distance, and even gave their orders with an apologetic air, as if sorry to have to subject so glorious a creature to the indignity of having to pump beer. This admireir was a young miner named Sydney Cole, who was working the quartz veins in the hills with his father for mate, and doing very well. He was a decent-looking, well-set-up youngster, of about twentytwo, quipt in manner, without selfoonsciousness, and with a good deal of native sense, and rathe|r better educated than the bulk of the youths of River Bend. The new baa-maid found that he could converse on some subjects interestingly, and she allowed him a little intimacy that was extended to no other. _ She even walked along the river with him one Sunday afternoon, having met him by the bridge quite accidentally. "Syd Cole's the bloke, all right," said Billyho Carter. ''The lad'll make her a good husband." was Mrs. Quigley'si comment. One evening Syd came upon Mary sitting watching the sunset reflected in the river, and sat at her feet. "You are no uncommon kind of girl, Miss Sable," he said, presently. "Is that meant to be a compliment ?" "I don't know. That was just how you struck me. I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever _ seen, and I have not spent all my life in this dull hole." "I don't think you should tell me so if you think so. lam sure you should not tell me in that tone." Mary moved to rise. "Don't go, please. I want to ask you if— if. The fact is, I like you— like you — very much." His face was crimson. It was hard to find words to fit his meaning. "Please don't," said the girl. "Please don't say another word." The young man was silent for a moment, "and turning his face from her sat plucking at the grass nervously. ''I was going to ask you to — to be my sweetheart; to be engaged to me," ho blurted. "That is impossible," said Mary, gently. "Absolutely and utterly impossible. You may understand why some day." Syd Cole understood why sooner than he expected. He had taken the rebuff quietly, but had not abandoned hope, and was standing at the bar one afternoon a few days later when a buggy, drawn by a smart pair of bays, drove up to the door, and a tall, gentlemanly, grey-headed, clean-shaven man sprang to the ground, and entered the bar. The stranger came to a standstill in the middle of the room, and looked at Mary, from Mary to Syd, and then about the place, his eyes coming back to Mary again. The two stared at each other for some moments. Evidently they were well acquainted, and Cole noticed a striking resemblance to Mary in the stern face of the man. Mary was the first to speak. "Father," she said simply. "You still call me father, then? You admit mv right to the title, if not to any of the powers, of a father." "I deny you no rights that are properl y a fathei's. I have never done so." "But you steal from your parents' roof, leaving no wrord, no sign, and acting on a hint from an anonymous correspondent, I find you here fillino- the office of barmaid in a bush shanty. You, Paula Clifton." "In a respectable house, where at least I am not denied the simple right of a sentient human being." "I gave you the best education possible ; I thought I had given you the instincts of a lady — " The man made d gesture of despair. "You designed to send me to a worse place, father. To the home of a man I loathe." "Paula, for God's sake—" The father extended trembling hands ap-

pealmgly. His whole manner changed. "Think ot your mother." ' I have never ceased to think of her, but I owe myself a sacred duty. Never while you meditate giving me to that man for wife shall I live under your roof." Her father knitted his brows, and gazed at her in silence for a moment. Ho made a visible effort to oveicome his rising; anger and speak quietly "The day after you left home I told White that it was impossible, that you could never be his wife." "Father! Father! Oh, dad, if you mean that I can be as dutiful a daughter as ever lived — if you mean it." "You will come home?" "Yes." "At once ?" "Now." _ • So Bono lost his barmaid as mysteriously as he had found her, for Syd could not be prevailed upon to tell anything of what he had heard. As she was going, Mary offered him her hand. "Good-bye " she said, "and I wish you success and hanmness. One thing I w r ant you to do for my sake, say nothing of what you have heard, repeat no names. Do you promise ? " "I promise." he answered, simply. Three months later, Paula Clifton, the exact double of the barmaid from Beno's pub at River Bend, was seated in the moonlit garden of a fine residence ii< a Melbourne suburb. She was in evening dress; the jewels she wore we're valuable enough, to have bought up Beno's establishment a dozen times over. A tall, fair man of about thirty sat by her side. "Yes, Harry," she said, "dad's consent is my birthday gift." "But the priceless gift comes to me." The tall, fair man of thirty kissed her boldly, like a privileged person. "But, oh I'm afraid," whispered the girl. "If father found out that my flight to River Bend, my barmaid experiences, and all that, were never seriously meant — that I did it only to frighten him into putting an end to White's wooing, and letting his wilful daughter have her own wild way, what a disturbance there would be!" "Your friends all think you spent the time with your Tasmanian aunts." "Yes. Think of the scandal if they knew that I had been serving an apprenticeship as barmaid in a common little bush pub." The man laughed again. "Really," he said, "perhaps, after all, I am. taking too much risk in marrying an ex-bar-maid. A man of my position must — " The girl had thrown her arms about him. "I defy you to escape," she cried. He did not seem particularly anxious to do so. "But you have not told me how the governor found you out," he said. "Stupid ! I wrote him an anonymous letter, telling him where I was, of course." The tall, fair man of thirty laughed again, and Paula laughed to, and her father, standing at the window, laughed in sympathy. "Well, well," he murmured, "af ter all the little girl knows best. What does the rest matter if she is happy?" — By Ward Edson, in Melbourne "Punch."