For I love my mother, love 'er with all my 'eart,I can see 'er now on the doorstep, the day we 'ad to part.A man that's got a tanner, can always get a wife,But a mother is just a treasure that comes once in a life.
For I love my mother, love 'er with all my 'eart,I can see 'er now on the doorstep, the day we 'ad to part.A man that's got a tanner, can always get a wife,But a mother is just a treasure that comes once in a life.
"Now then, ladies and gents, chorus ifyouplease," he cried.
They did please, and soon Mrs. Bindle's kitchen echoed with a full-throated rendering of:
We all love mother, love her all the time,For there ain't no other who seems to us the same.From babyhood to manhood, she watches o'er our lives,For it's mother, mother, mother, bless the dear old name.
We all love mother, love her all the time,For there ain't no other who seems to us the same.From babyhood to manhood, she watches o'er our lives,For it's mother, mother, mother, bless the dear old name.
It was a doleful refrain, charged with cockney melancholy; yet there could be no doubt about the enthusiasm of the singers. Mrs. Hearty spilled beer over her blue satin bosom, as a result of the energy with which she beat time; Mrs. Stitchley's hand, the one not grasping her stay-busk, was also beating time, different time from Mrs. Hearty's, whilst two light-coloured knees rose and fell with the regularity of piston-rods, solving for Mrs. Bindle the mystery of the sounds like the tossing about of bricks she had heard in the parlour.
Ginger was joining in the chorus!
As the singer started the second verse, Mrs. Bindle was conscious that someone was behind her. She turned to find Miss Stitchley standing at her shoulder. A moment later she realised that the little passage was overflowing with carol-singers.
Still she made no sign, not even when Miss Stitchley slipped past her and took up a position behind hermother's chair. Mrs. Bindle realised that she was faced with a delicate situation.
The second chorus still further complicated matters. Mrs. Bindle was sure she heard the haunting refrain mumbled from behind her. She turned quickly; but treason came from the other direction. Suddenly Miss Stitchley burst into song, and the passage, throwing aside its hesitation, joined in, softly it is true, still it joined in.
"Come in, everybody!" cried Mrs. Stitchley, when the chorus ceased, momentarily forgetful that it was Mrs. Bindle's kitchen.
"Ain't 'e clever," she added, looking admiringly at the musician, who glanced up casually at the mistress of the house. Art Wiggins was accustomed to feminine worship and unlimited beer; he regarded them as the natural tributes to his genius.
"Come in, the 'ole lot," cried Bindle cheerily, as he proceeded to unscrew the stopper of a bottle. "'Ave a wet, Art," he cried, addressing the vocalist. "You deserves it."
The remainder of the parlour-party filtered into the kitchen, and Mrs. Bindle realised the anguish of a Louis XVIII. Her legions had gone over to the enemy.
"Now this," remarked Mrs. Stitchley to Ginger a quarter-of-an-hour later, "is wot I calls a cosy evenin'."
To which Ginger grumbled something about not "'oldin' wiv women."
Art Wiggins was the hero of the occasion. Hesmoked halves of endless cigarettes, chewing the remainder; he drank beer like a personified Sahara, and a continuous stream of song flowed from his lips.
When at length he paused to eat, Mrs. Stitchley took up the running, urged on by Bindle, to whom she had confided that, as a girl, she had achieved what was almost fame with, "I Heard the Mavis Singing."
Art Wiggins did not know the tune; but was not to be deterred.
"Carry on, mother," he cried through a mouthful of ham-sandwich, "I'll pick it up."
The result was that Art played something strongly reminiscent of "Bubbles," whilst Mrs. Stitchley was telling how she had heard the mavis singing, to the tune of "Swanee." It was a great success until Art, weary of being so long out of the picture, threw "Bubbles," "Swanee," Mrs. Stitchley and the mavis overboard, and broke into a narrative about a young man of the name of Bert, who had become enamoured of a lady whose abbreviated petticoats made an excellent rhyme for the hero's name.
Mrs. Stitchley continued singing; but Art and Bert and the young lady of his choice, plus the concertina, left her little or no chance.
Like a figure of retribution Mrs. Bindle stood in the doorway, hard of eye and grim of lip, whilst just behind her Mr. Hearty picked nervously at the quicks of his fingers.
The other guests had proved opportunists. They had thrown over the sacred for the profane.
They came out particularly strong in the choruses.
III
"I never remember sich a evenin', my dear," was Mrs. Stitchley's valediction. "Stitchley'll be sorry 'e missed it," she added, indifferent to the fact that he had not been invited.
She was the last to go, just as she had been the first to arrive. Throughout the evening she had applauded every effort of Art Wiggins to add to what Bindle called "the 'armony of the evenin'."
"I have enjoyed it, Mrs. Bindle," said Miss Stitchley. "It was lovely."
With these encomiums ringing in her ears, and confirmed by what she herself had seen and heard, Mrs. Bindle closed the door and returned to the kitchen.
Bindle watched her uncertainly as she tidied up the place, whilst he proceeded to arrange upon the dresser the beer-bottles, sixteen in number and all empty.
As a rule he could anticipate Mrs. Bindle's mood; but to-night he was frankly puzzled. When he had asked Huggles and Wilkes to drop in "for a jaw," he had not foreseen that on the way they would encounter Ginger, his cousin Art Wiggins and two bosom friends of Art, nor could he be expected to foresee that Art went nowhere without his concertina. It was as much part of him as his elaborate quiff.
Their arrival had inspired Bindle with somethingakin to panic. For a long time he had striven to mute Art's musical restiveness. At length he had been over-ruled by the others, and Art had burst into song about Bill Morgan and his first wife's funeral. After that, as well try to dam Niagara as seal those lips of song.
Mrs. Bindle's grim silence as she moved about the kitchen disconcerted Bindle. He was busy speculating as to what was behind it all.
"Been a 'appy sort of evenin'," he remarked at length, as he proceeded to knock the ashes out of his pipe.
Mrs. Bindle made no response; but continued to gather together the plates and glasses and place them in two separate bowls in the sink.
"Seemed to enjoy theirselves," he ventured a few minutes later. "Joined in the choruses too."
Bindle's remark was like a shot fired at a waterspout, Mrs. Bindle's wrath burst its bounds and engulfed him.
"One of these days you'll kill me," she shrilled, dropping into a chair, "and then p'raps you'll be 'appy."
"Wot 'ave I done now?" he enquired.
"You've made me ashamed of you," she stormed. "You've humiliated me before all those people. What must they think, seein' me married to one who will suffer unto the third and fourth generation and——"
"But I can't——"
"You will and you know it," she cried. "Look at the men you 'ad 'ere to-night. You never been a proper 'usband to me. Here have I been toiling andmoiling, inching and pinching, working my fingers to the bone for you, and then you treat me like this."
Bindle began to edge almost imperceptibly towards the door.
"See how you've humiliated me," her voice began to quaver. "What will they say at the Chapel? They know all about you, whistling on Sundays and spending your time in public-houses, while your wife is working herself to skin an' bone to cook your meals and mend your clothes. What'll they say now they've seen the low companions you invite to your home? They'll see how you respect your wife."
Still Bindle made no retort; but in a subdued murmur hummed "Gospel Bells," Mrs. Bindle's favourite hymn, which he used as a snake-charmer uses a flute.
"You're glad, I know it," she continued, exasperated by his silence. "Glad to see your wife humiliated. Look at you now! You're glad." Her voice was rising hysterically. "One of these days I shall go out and never return, and then you'll be——"
Like a tornado the emotional super-storm burst, and Mrs. Bindle was in the grip of screaming hysterics.
She laughed, she cried, she exhorted, she reproached. Everything evil that had ever happened to her, or to the universe, was directly due to the blackness of Bindle's heart and the guiltiness of his conscience. He was the one barrier between her and earthly heaven. He had failed where Mr. Hearty had succeeded. She poured upon him a withering stream of invective,—and she did it at the top of her voice.
At first Bindle stared; then he gazed vaguely about him. He made a sudden dive for the cupboard, rummaged about until he found the vinegar-bottle. Pouring some out into a saucer, he filled it up with water and returned to where Mrs. Bindle sat, slopping the liquid as he went.
Mrs. Bindle was now engaged in linking him up with Sodom and Gomorrah, the fate that befell Lot's wife and Dr. Crippen. Then, with a final scream, she slipped from her chair to the floor, where she lay moaning and sobbing.
With an earnest, anxious look in his eyes, Bindle knelt beside her and from the saucer proceeded to sprinkle her generously with vinegar and water, until in odour she resembled a freshly-made salad.
When he had sprinkled the greater part of the contents of the saucer on to her person, he sat back on his heels and, with grave and anxious eyes, regarded her as a boy might who has lighted the end of a rocket and waits expectantly to see the result.
Gradually the storm of emotion died down and finally ceased. He still continued to gaze fixedly at Mrs. Bindle, convinced that vinegar-and-water was the one and only cure for hysterics.
Presently, she straightened herself. She moved, then struggling up into a sitting position, she looked about her. The unaccustomed smell assailed her nostrils she sniffed sharply two or three times.
"What have you been doing?" she demanded.
"I been bringin' you to," he said, his forehead still ribbed with anxiety.
"Oh! you beast, you!" she moaned, as she struggled to her feet. "You done it on purpose."
"Done wot on purpose?" he enquired.
"Poured vinegar all over me and soaked me to the skin. You've spoilt my dress. You——" and with a characteristically sudden movement, she turned and fled from the room and upstairs, banging the door with a ferocity that shook the whole house.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "An' me thinkin' she'd like me to bring 'er round," and he slipped out into the parlour, which wore a very obvious morning-after-the-party aspect. His object was to give Mrs. Bindle an opportunity of returning. He knew her to be incapable of going to bed with her kitchen untidy.
He ate a sausage-roll and a piece of the admonitory jam-tart, listening keenly for sounds of Mrs. Bindle descending the stairs. Finally he seated himself on the stamped-plush couch and absent-mindedly lighted his pipe.
Presently he heard a soft tread upon the stairs, as if someone were endeavouring to descend without noise. He sighed his relief.
Ten minutes later he rose and stretched himself sleepily. There were obvious sounds of movement in the kitchen.
"Now if I wasn't the bloomin' coward wot I am," he remarked, as he took a final look round, "I'd light them two candles; but I ain't got the pluck."
With that he turned out the gas and closed the door.
"You take those bottles into the scullery and bequick about it," was Mrs. Bindle's greeting as he entered the kitchen.
She fixed her eye on the platoon of empty beer-bottles that Bindle had assembled upon the dresser.
He paused in the act of digging into his pipe with a match-stick. He had been prepared for the tail-end of a tornado, and this slight admonitory puff surprised him.
"Well! did you hear?"
Without a word the pipe was slipped into his pocket, and picking up a brace of bottles in either hand he passed into the scullery.
As he did so a strange glint sprang into Mrs. Bindle's eyes. With a panther-like movement she dashed across to the scullery door, slammed it to and turned the key. A second later the kitchen was in darkness, and Mrs. Bindle was on her way upstairs to bed.
The continuous banging upon the scullery door as she proceeded leisurely to undress was as sweet music to her ears.
That night Bindle slept indifferently well.
"Why can't you drink your tea like a Christian?" Mrs. Bindle hurled the words at Bindle as if she hoped they would hit him.
He gazed at her over the edge of the saucerful of tea, which he had previously cooled by blowing noisily upon it. A moment later he proceeded to empty the saucer with a sibilant sound suggestive of relish. He then replaced it upon the table.
"Might as well be among pigs, the way you behave at table," she snapped and, as if to emphasise her own refinement in taking liquids, she lifted her cup delicately to her lips, the little finger of her right hand crooked at an awkward angle.
Bindle leaned slightly towards her, his hand to his ear. Ignoring his attitude, she replaced the cup in the saucer.
"You done that fine, Mrs. B. I didn't 'ear a sound," and he grinned in that provocative manner which always fanned the flame of her anger.
"Pity you don't learn yourself, instead of behaving as you do."
"But 'ow am I to know 'ow a Christian drinks?"he demanded, harking back to Mrs. Bindle's remark. "There's 'Earty now, 'e's a Christian; but he sucks in 'is whiskers as if 'e was 'ungry."
"Oh! don't talk to me," was the impatient response, as she proceeded to pour herself out another cup of tea.
"Wotjer marry me for, then? I told you I was always chatty at breakfast."
"Don't be disgusting!" she cried angrily. He stared at her in genuine astonishment. "You know I never allowed you to say such things to me before we were married."
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered as he pushed across his cup that it might be refilled.
"Millie's coming this afternoon."
"Millie!" he cried, his face beaming. "She all right again?"
"Don't be disgusting," she said.
"Disgustin'," he repeated vaguely. Then understanding came to him.
Millie Dixon, née Hearty, had, some weeks previously, presented her husband with "a little Joe." These had been her first words to Charley Dixon when he, still partially in the grip of the terror through which he had passed, had been taken by the nurse to be introduced to his son and heir, whilst a pale, tired Millie smiled bravely up at him.
To Mrs. Bindle the very mention of the word "babies" in mixed company was an offence. The news that he was an uncle had reached Bindle from Mrs. Hearty, Mr. Hearty sharing his sister-in-law'sviews upon reticence in such delicate and personal matters.
"She goin' to bring it with 'er?" Bindle enquired eagerly; but Mrs. Bindle, anticipating such a question, had risen and, going over to the sink, had turned on the tap, allowing the question to pass in a rushing of water.
"Funny feelin' like that about babies," he muttered as he rose from the table, his meal completed. "I suppose that's why she wouldn't let me keep rabbits."
"Charley's coming in later; he's going to mend Aunt Anne's musical-box," was Mrs. Bindle's next announcement.
Bindle whistled incredulously.
"What's the matter now?"
"You ain't goin' to trust 'im with Ole Dumb Abraham, are you?" he asked in a hushed voice.
"And why not, pray?" she challenged. "Millie says Charley is very clever at mending things, and it's never played."
Bindle said nothing. The musical-box had been left to Mrs. Bindle by "poor Aunt Anne"—Mrs. Bindle referred to all dead relatives as "poor"; it was her one unconscious blasphemy. Dumb Abraham, as Bindle called the relic, had always been the most sacred among Mrs. Bindle's household gods. It had arrived dumb, and dumb it had remained, as she would never hear of it leaving the house to be put in order.
If Bindle ever went into the parlour after dark, he was always told to be careful of Aunt Anne's musical box. Many a battle had been waged over its dumbugliness. Once he had rested for a moment upon its glassy surface a half-smoked cigar, a thoughtless act which had resulted in one of the stormiest passages of their married life.
"Well!" challenged Mrs. Bindle, as he remained silent.
"I didn't say anythink," he mumbled, picking up his cap and making for the door, thankful that it was Saturday, and that he would be home in time to see his beloved niece.
That afternoon Bindle arrived home with his pockets bulging, and several parcels of varying sizes under his arm.
"What have you got there?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, who was occupied in spreading a white cloth upon the kitchen table.
"Oh! jest a few things for 'is Nibs," was the response.
"For who?"
"The nipper," he explained, as he proceeded to unburden himself of the parcels, laying them on the dresser.
"I wish you'd try and talk like a Christian," and she banged a metal tea-tray upon the table.
Bindle ignored her remark. He was engaged in taking from its wrappings a peculiarly hideous rag-doll.
Mrs. Bindle paused in her preparations to watch the operation.
"What's that for?" she demanded aggressively.
"Millie's kid," he replied, devoting himself to the opening of other packages, and producing a monkey-on-a-stick, an inexpensive teddy-bear, a jack-in-the-box and several metal animals, which on being blown through emitted strident noises.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, wasting money on hideous things like that. They'd frighten the poor child to death."
"Frighten 'im!" he cried. "These ain't goin' to frighten 'im. You wait an' 'ear wot 'e's got to say about 'em."
"You just clear those things out of my kitchen," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "I won't have the poor child sent into convulsions because you're a fool."
There was something in her voice which caused Bindle meekly to gather together the toys and carry them out of the kitchen and upstairs, where he placed them in a drawer devoted entirely to his own possessions.
"Well, I'm blowed," he murmured, as he laid them one beside another. "And me a-thinkin' they'd make 'im laugh;" with that he closed the drawer, determined that, at least, Millie should see the toys that were as much a tribute to her as to her offspring.
"Fancy little Millikins 'avin' a kid all of 'er own," he muttered, as he descended the stairs, "'er wot I used to dangle on my knee till she crowed again. Well, well," he added as he opened the kitchen door, "we ain't none of us gettin' younger."
"Wot's that?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.
"Merely a sort o' casual remark that none of us ain't puttin' back the clock."
Mrs. Bindle sniffed disdainfully, and busied herself with preparations for tea.
"Why didn't you tell me before that Millikins was comin'?" he enquired.
"Because you're never in as any other decent husband is."
He recognised the portents and held his peace.
When Mrs. Bindle was busy, her temper had a tendency to be on what Bindle called "the short side," and then even her favourite hymn, "Gospel Bells," frequently failed to stem the tide of her wrath.
"Ain't we goin' to 'ave tea in the parlour?" he enquired presently, as Mrs. Bindle smoothed the cloth over the kitchen table.
"No, we're not," she snapped, thinking it unnecessary to add that Millie had particularly requested that she might have it "in your lovely kitchen," because she was "one of the family."
Although Bindle infinitely preferred the kitchen to that labyrinth of furniture and knick-knacks known as the parlour, he felt that the occasion demanded the discomfort consequent upon ceremony. He was, however, too wise to criticise the arrangement; for Mrs. Bindle's temper and tongue were of a known sharpness that counselled moderation.
She had made no mention of the time of Millie's arrival, and Bindle decided not to take the risk of enquiring. He contented himself with hovering about, getting under Mrs. Bindle's feet, as she expressed it, and managing to place himself invariably in the exact spot she was making for.
If he sat on a chair, Mrs. Bindle seemed suddenly to discover that it required dusting. If he took refuge in a corner, Mrs. Bindle promptly dived into it with an "Oh! get out of my way, do," and he would do a swift side-step, only to make for what was the high-road of her next strategic move.
"Why don't you go out like you always do?" she demanded at one point.
"Because Millikins is comin'," he replied simply.
"Yes, you can stay at home for—when somebody's coming," she amended, "but other days you leave me alone for weeks together."
"But when I do stay at 'ome you 'ustles me about like a stray goat," he complained, only just succeeding in avoiding a sudden dash on Mrs. Bindle's part.
"That's right, go on. Blame everything on to me," she cried, as she made a swift dive for the stove, and proceeded to poke the fire as if determined to break the fire-brick at the back. "If you'd only been a proper 'usband to me I might have been different."
Bindle slipped across the kitchen and stepped out into the passage. Here he remained until Mrs. Bindle suddenly threw open the kitchen door.
"What are you standing there for?" she demanded angrily.
"So as not to get in the way," was the meek reply.
"You want to be able to tell Millie that you were turned out of the kitchen," she stormed. "I know you and your mean, deceitful ways. Well, stay there if you like it!" and she banged the door, and Bindle heard the key turn in the lock.
"There's one thing about Mrs. B.," he remarked, as he leaned against the wall, "she ain't dull."
When at length the expected knock came, it was Mrs. Bindle who darted out and opened the door to admit Millie Dixon, carrying in her arms the upper end of what looked like a cascade of white lace.
A sudden fit of shyness seized Bindle, and he retreated to the kitchen; whilst aunt and niece greeted one another in the passage.
"Where's Uncle Joe?" he heard Millie ask presently.
"I'm 'ere, Millikins," he called-out, "cookin' the veal for that there young prodigal."
A moment later Millie, flushed and happy, fluttered into the room, still holding the cascade of lace.
"Darling Uncle Joe," she cried, advancing towards him.
He took a step backwards, a look of awe in his eyes, which were fixed upon the top of the cascade.
"Aren't you going to kiss me, Uncle Joe?" she asked, holding up her face.
"Kiss you, my dear, why——" Bindle was seized with a sudden huskiness in his voice, as he leaned forward gingerly and kissed the warm red lips held out to him.
"Is that It?" he asked, looking down with troubled eyes at Millie's burden.
"This is Little Joe," she said softly, the wonder-light of motherhood in her eyes, as she placed one foot on the rail of a chair to support her precious burden, thus releasing her right hand to lift the veil from a redand puckered face, out of which gazed a pair of filmy blue eyes.
"Ooooooosssss." Instinctively Bindle drew a deep breath as he bent a few inches forward.
For fully a minute he stood absorbing all there was to be seen of Joseph the Second.
"'E ain't very big, is 'e?" he enquired, raising his eyes to Millie's.
"He's only six weeks old," snapped Mrs. Bindle, who had followed Millie into the kitchen and now stood, with ill-concealed impatience, whilst Bindle was gazing at the infant. "What did you expect?" she demanded.
"Don't 'e look 'ot?" said Bindle at length, his forehead seamed with anxiety.
"Hot, Uncle Joe?" enquired Millie, unable to keep from her voice a tinge of the displeasure of a mother who hears her offspring criticised.
"I mean 'e don't look strong," he added hastily, conscious that he had said the wrong thing.
"Don't be silly, Uncle Joe, he's just a wee little baby, aren't you, bootiful boy?" and she gazed at the red face in a way that caused Bindle to realise that his niece was now a woman.
"'E's the very spit of 'is old uncle, ain't 'e?" and he turned to Mrs. Bindle for corroboration.
She ignored the remark; but Millie smiled sympathetically.
"I 'ad a takin' way with me when I was a little 'un," continued Bindle reminiscently. "Why, once I was nearly kissed by a real lady—one with a title, too."
"Oh! do tell me, Uncle Joe," cried Millie, looking at him with that odd little lift of the brows, which always made Charley want to kiss her. She had heard the story a score of times before.
"Well, 'er 'usband was a-tryin' to get into Parliament, an' 'is wife, wot was the lady, came round a-askin' people to vote for 'im. Seein' me in my mother's arms, she says, 'Wot a pretty child.' You see, Millikins, looks was always my strong point," and he paused in the narrative to grin.
"Then she bends down to kiss me," he continued, "an' jest at that moment wot must I go and do but sneeze, an' that's 'ow I missed a kiss an' 'er 'usband a vote."
"Poor Uncle Joe," laughed Millie, making a little motion with her arms towards Mrs. Bindle.
Without a word, Mrs. Bindle took the precious bundle of lace, out of which two filmy eyes gazed vacantly. With a swaying movement she began to croon a meaningless tune, that every now and then seemed as if it might develop into "Gospel Bells"; yet always hesitated on the brink and became diverted into something else.
The baby turned on her a solemn, appraising look of interrogation, then, apparently approving of the tune, settled down comfortably to enjoy it.
Bindle regarded Mrs. Bindle with wonder. Into her eyes had crept a something he had only once seen there before, and that was on the occasion he had brought Millie to Fenton Street when she left home.
Seeing that "Baby" was content, Millie droppedinto a chair with a tired little sigh, her eyes fixed upon the precious bundle of lace containing what would one day be a man.
Mrs. Bindle continued to sway and croon in a way that seemed to Little Joe's entire satisfaction.
"Aren't you glad we called him after you, Uncle Joe?" said Millie, tearing her eyes with difficulty from the bundle and turning them upon Bindle.
"Yer aunt told me," he said simply.
"Oh! I do hope he'll grow up like you, Uncle Joe, dear Uncle Joe," she cried, clasping her hands in her earnestness, as if that might help to make good her wish.
"Like me?" There was wonder and incredulity in his voice.
"Charley says hemustgrow up like you, darling Uncle Joe. You see——" She broke off as Bindle suddenly turned and, without a word, made for the door. A moment later it banged-to behind him arousing Mrs. Bindle from her pre-occupation.
"Where's your Uncle gone?" she enquired, lifting her eyes from their absorbed contemplation of the flaming features of her nephew.
"He's—he's gone to fetch something," lied Millie. Instinctively she felt that this was an occasion that called for anything but the truth. She had seen the unusual brightness of Bindle's eyes.
From the passage he was heard vigorously blowing his nose.
"It's them toys he's after," said Mrs. Bindle, with scornful conviction.
"Toys?" Millie looked up enquiringly.
"He bought a lot of hideous things for this little precious," and her eyes fell upon the bundle in her arms, her lips breaking into a curve that Bindle had never seen.
"You see, Millie," she continued, "he doesn't know. We've neither chick nor child of——" She broke off suddenly, and bowed her head low over the baby.
In a second Millie was on her feet, her arm round Mrs. Bindle's shoulders.
"Dear Aunt Lizzie!" she cried, her voice a little unsteady. "Darling Aunt Lizzie. I—I know—I——"
At this point Joseph the Second, objecting to the pressure to which he was being subjected between the two emotional bosoms, raised his voice in protest, just as Bindle entered, his arms full of the toys he had bought.
He stood in the doorway, gaping with amazement.
As Mrs. Bindle caught sight of him, she blinked rapidly.
"Don't bring that rubbish in here," she cried with a return to her normal manner. "You'll frighten the child out of its life."
"Oh! Uncle Joe," cried Millie, as Bindle deposited the toys on the table. "I think you're the darlingest uncle in all the world."
There were tears in the eyes she turned on him.
Mrs. Bindle swung her back on the pair, as Bindle proceeded to explain the virtues and mechanism of his purchases. She was convinced that such monstrosities would produce in little Joseph nothing lessthan convulsions, probably resulting in permanent injury to his mind.
Whilst they were thus engaged, Mrs. Bindle walked up and down the kitchen, absorbed in the baby.
"Auntie Lizzie," cried Millie presently, "please bring Little Joe here."
Mrs. Bindle hesitated. "They'll frighten him, Millie," she said, with a gentleness in her voice that caused Bindle to look quickly up at her.
To disprove the statement, and with all the assurance of a young mother, Millie seized the rag-doll and a diminutive golliwog, and held them over the recumbent form of Joseph the Second.
In an instant a pudgy little hand was thrust up, followed immediately after by another, and Joseph the Second demonstrated with all his fragile might that, as far as toys were concerned, he was at one with his uncle.
Bindle beamed with delight. Seizing the monkey-on-a-stick he proceeded vigorously to work it up and down. The pudgy hands raised themselves again.
"Oh! let Uncle Joe hold him," cried Millie, in ecstasy at the sight of the dawning intelligence on the baby's face.
"Me!" cried Bindle in horror, stepping back as if he had been asked to foster-mother a vigorous young rattlesnake. "Me 'old It?" He looked uncertainly at Mrs. Bindle and then again at Millie. "Not for an old-age pension."
"He'll make him cry," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction, hugging Little Joe closer and increasing the swaying movement.
"Oh yes, you must!" cried Millie gaily. "I'll take him, Auntie Lizzie," she said, turning to Mrs. Bindle, who manifested reluctance to relinquish the bundle.
"I might 'urt 'im," protested Bindle, retreating a step further, his forehead lined with anxiety.
"Now, Uncle Joe," commanded Millie, extending the bundle, "put your arms out."
Bindle extended his hands as might a child who is expecting to be caned. There was reluctance in the movement, and a suggestion that at any moment he was prepared to withdraw them suddenly.
"Not that way," snapped Mrs. Bindle, with all the scorn of a woman's superior knowledge.
Millie settled the matter by thrusting the bundle into Bindle's arms and he had, perforce, to clasp it.
He looked about him wildly, then, his eyes happening to catch those of Joseph the Second, he forgot his responsibilities, and began winking rapidly and in a manner that seemed entirely to Little Joe's satisfaction.
"Oh, Auntie Lizzie, look," cried Millie. "Little Joe loves Uncle Joe already." The inspiration of motherhood had enabled her to interpret a certain slobbering movement about Little Joe's lips as affection.
"Oh, look!" she cried again, as one chubby little hand was raised as if in salutation. "Auntie Lizzie——" She suddenly broke off. She had caught sight of the tense look on Mrs. Bindle's face as she gazed at the baby, and the hunger in her eyes.
Without a word she seized the bundle from Bindle'sarms and placed it in those of her aunt, which instinctively curved themselves to receive the precious burden.
"There, darling Joeykins," she crooned as she bent over her baby's face, as if to shield from Mrs. Bindle any momentary disappointment it might manifest. "Go to Auntie Lizzie."
"'Ere, wot 'ave I——?" began Bindle, when he was interrupted by a knock at the outer door.
"That's Charley," cried Millie, dancing towards the door in a most unmatronly manner. "Come along, Uncle Joe, he's going to mend the musical-box," and with that she tripped down the passage, had opened the door and was greeting her husband almost before Bindle had left the kitchen.
"Come in here," she cried, opening the parlour door, and hardly giving Bindle time to greet Charley.
"'Ere," cried Bindle, "why——?"
"Never mind, Uncle Joe, Charley's going to mend the musical-box."
"But wot about it—'im," Bindle corrected himself, indicating the kitchen with a jerk of his thumb.
"Charley's-going-to-mend-the-musical-box," she repeated with great distinctness. And again Bindle marvelled at the grown-upness of her.
He looked across at his nephew, a puzzled expression creasing his forehead.
"Better do as she says, Uncle Joe," laughed Charley. "It saves time."
"But——" began Bindle.
"There it is, Charley," cried Millie, indicating amahogany object, with glass top and sides that gave an indelicate view of its internal organism. Being a dutiful husband, Charley lifted down the box and placed it on to the table.
"For Gawd's sake be careful of Ole Dumb Abraham," cried Bindle. "If——"
"Of who?" cried Millie, her pretty brows puckered.
Bindle explained, watching with anxious eyes as Charley lifted the treasure from the small table on which it habitually rested, and placed it upon the centre table, where Millie had cleared a space.
Charley's apparent unconcern gave Bindle an unpleasant feeling at the base of his spine. He had been disciplined to regard the parlour as holy ground, and the musical-box as the holiest thing it contained.
For the next three-quarters of an hour Bindle and Millie watched Charley, as, with deft fingers, he took the affair to pieces and put it together again.
Finally, with much coaxing and a little oil, he got it to give forth an anæmic interpretation of "The Keel Row." Then it gurgled, slowed down and gave up the struggle, in consequence of which Charley made further incursions into its interior.
Becoming accustomed to the thought of Aunt Anne's legacy being subjected to the profanation of screw-driver and oil-bottle, Bindle sat down by the window, and proceeded to exchange confidences with Millie, who had made it clear to him that her aunt and son were to be left to their tête-à-tête undisturbed.
The conversation between uncle and niece was punctuated by snatches from "The Keel Row," asCharley was successful in getting the sluggish mechanism of Dumb Abraham into temporary motion.
Occasionally he would give expression to a hiss or murmur of impatience, and Millie would smile across at him an intimate little smile of sympathy.
Suddenly, gaunt tragedy stalked into the room.
Crash!
"My Gawd!"
"Oh, Charley!"
"Damn!"
And Poor Aunt Anne's musical-box lay on the floor, a ruin of splintered glass.
Charley Dixon sucked a damaged thumb, Millie clung to his arm, solicitous and enquiring, whilst Bindle gazed down at the broken mass, fear in his eyes, and a sense of irretrievable disaster clutching at his heart.
Charley began to explain, Millie demanded to see the damaged thumb—but Bindle continued to gaze at the sacred relic.
Five minutes later, the trio left the parlour. As noiselessly as conspirators they tip-toed along the passage to the kitchen door, which stood ajar.
Through the aperture Mrs. Bindle could be seen seated at the table, Joseph the Second reposing in the crook of her left arm, whilst she, with her right hand, was endeavouring to work the monkey-on-a-stick.
In her eyes was a strange softness, a smile broke the hard lines of her mouth, whilst from her lips came an incessant flow of baby language.
For several minutes they watched. They saw Mrs.Bindle lay aside the monkey-on-a-stick, and bend over the babe, murmuring the sounds that come by instinct to every woman's lips.
At a sign from Millie, they entered. Mrs. Bindle glanced over her shoulder in their direction; but other and weightier matters claimed her attention.
"Lizzie," began Bindle, who had stipulated that he should break the awful news, urging as his reason that it had to be done with "tack." He paused. Mrs. Bindle took no notice; but continued to bend over Little Joe, making strange sounds.
"Lizzie——" he began, paused, then in a rush the words came. "We broken the musical-box."
He stopped, that the heavens might have an opportunity of falling.
"Did-he-love-his-Auntie-Lizzie-blossom-um-um-um-um."
Charley and Millie exchanged glances; but Bindle was too intent upon his disastrous mission to be conscious of anything but the storm he knew was about to break.
"Did you 'ear, Lizzie," he continued. "We broken the musical-box. Smashed it all to smithereens. Done for it," he added, as if to leave no loophole for misconception as to the appalling nature of the tragedy.
He held his breath, as one who has just tugged at the cord of a shower-bath.
"Oh! go away do!" she cried. "Um-um-um-um-prettyums."
"Pore Aunt Anne's musical-box," he repeated dully. "It's smashed."
"Oh, bother the musical-box! Um-um-um-per-weshus-um-um-um."
Mrs. Bindle had not even looked up.
It was Millie who shepherded the others back into the parlour, where Bindle mopped his brow, with the air of a man who, having met death face to face, has survived.
"Well, I'm blowed!" was all he said.
And Millie smiled across at Charley, a smile of superior understanding.
"I wonder you allow that girl to wear such disgusting clothes."
For the last five minutes Mrs. Bindle had been watching Alice, Mrs. Hearty's maid, as she moved about the room, tidying-up. The girl had just returned from her evening out, and her first act had been to bring Mrs. Hearty her nightly glass of Guinness and "snack of bread-and-cheese," an enormous crust torn from a new cottage loaf and plentifully spread with butter, flanked by about a quarter-of-a-pound of cheese. Now that the girl had left the room, Mrs. Bindle could contain herself no longer.
Mrs. Hearty was a woman upon whom fat had descended as a disguise. Her manifold chins rippled downwards until they became absorbed in the gigantic wave of her bust. She had a generous appetite, and was damned with a liking for fat-forming foods.
With her sister she had nothing in common; but in Bindle she had found a kindred spirit. The very sight of him would invariably set her heaving and pulsating with laughter and protestations of "Oh, Joe, don't!"
For response to her sister's comment, Mrs. Heartytook a deep draught of Guinness and then, with a film of froth still upon her upper lip, she retorted, "It's 'er night out," and relapsed into wheezes and endeavours to regain her breath.
Mrs. Bindle was not in a good humour. She had called hoping to find Mr. Hearty returned from choir-practice, after which was to be announced the deacons' decision as to who was to succeed Mr. Smithers in training the choir.
Her brother-in-law's success was with her something between an inspiration and a hobby. It became the absorbing interest in life, outside the chapel and her home. No wife, or mother, ever watched the progress of a husband, or son, with keener interest, or greater admiration, than Mrs. Bindle that of Mr. Hearty.
As a girl, she had been pleasure-loving. There were those who even went to the extent of regarding her as flighty. She attended theatres and music-halls, which she had not then regarded as "places of sin," and her contemporaries classified her as something of a flirt; but disillusionment had come with marriage. She soon realised that she had made the great and unforgivable mistake of marrying the wrong man. It turned her from the "carnal," and was the cause of her joining the Alton Road Chapel, at which Mr. Hearty worshipped.
From that date she began a careful and elaborate preparation for the next world.
Although she nightly sought the Almighty to forgive her her trespasses, volunteering the informationthat she in turn would forgive those who trespassed against her, she never forgave Bindle for his glib and ready tongue, which had obscured her judgment to the extent of allowing to escape from the matrimonial noose, a potential master-greengrocer with three shops.
There was nothing in her attitude towards Mr. Hearty suggestive of sentiment. She was a woman, and she bowed the knee at an altar where women love to worship.
"I call it——" Mrs. Bindle stopped short as Alice re-entered the room with a small dish of pickled onions, without which Mrs. Hearty would have found it impossible to sleep.
With a woman's instinct, Alice realised that Mrs. Bindle disapproved of her low-cut, pale blue blouse, and the short skirt that exposed to the world's gaze so much of the nether Alice.
"You ain't been lonely, mum?" she queried solicitously, as she took a final look round before going to bed, to see that everything was in order.
Mrs. Hearty shook her head and undulated violently.
"It's my breath," she panted, and proceeded to hit her chest with the flat of her doubled-up fist. "'Ad a nice time?" she managed to gasp in the tone of a mistress who knows and understands, and is known and understood by, her maid.
"Oh! it was lovely," cried Alice ecstatically. "I went to the pictures with"—she hesitated and blushed—"a friend," then, pride getting the better of self-consciousness, she added, "a gentleman friend, mum.There was a filum about a young girl running away with 'er boy on a horse who turned out to be a millionaire and she looked lovely in her veil and orange-blossom and 'im that 'andsome."
"And when's it to be, Alice?" enquired Mrs. Hearty, between the assaults upon her chest.
"Oh, mum!" giggled Alice, and a moment later she had disappeared round the door, with a "Good night, mum, mind you sleeps well."
"I'm surprised the way you let that girl talk to you, Martha," snapped Mrs. Bindle, almost before the door had closed behind the retreating Alice. "You allow her to be too familiar. If you give them an inch, they'll take an ell," she added.
"She's a good gal," gasped Mrs. Hearty, as she lifted the glass of Guinness to her lips. "It's gone orf," she added a moment later. "It ain't wot it used to be," and she shook a despondent head as she replaced the almost empty glass upon the table.
"You'd be better without it," was the unsympathetic rejoinder, then, not to be diverted from the topic of Alice and her scanty attire, Mrs. Bindle added, "Her blouse was disgusting, and as for her skirt, I should be ashamed for her to be seen entering my house."
Mrs. Bindle believed in appearances as she believed in "the Lord," and it is open to question, if the two had at any time clashed, whether appearances would have been sacrificed.
"She's all right," wheezed Mrs. Hearty comfortably, through a mouthful of bread-and-cheese.
"The way girls dress now makes me hot all over," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "The police ought to stop it."
"They,"—with a gigantic swallow Mrs. Hearty reduced the bread-and-cheese to conversational proportions,—"they like it," she gasped at length, and broke into ripples and wheezes.
"Don't be disgusting, Martha. You make me ashamed. You ought to speak to Alice. It's not respectable, her going about like that."
Mrs. Hearty made an effort to speak; but the words failed to penetrate the barrage of bread-and-cheese—Mrs. Hearty did everything with gusto.
"Supposing I was to go out in a short skirt like that. What would you say then?"
"You—you ain't got the legs, Lizzie," and Mrs. Hearty was off into a paroxysm of gasps and undulations.
"Oh don't, don't," she gasped, as if Mrs. Bindle were responsible for her agony. "You'll be the death of me," she cried, as she wiped her eyes with a soiled pocket-handkerchief.
To Mrs. Hearty, laughter came as an impulse and an agony. She would implore the world at large not to make her laugh, heaving and shaking as she protested. She was good-natured, easy-going, and popular with her friends, who marvelled at what it was she had seen in the sedate and decorous Mr. Hearty to prompt her to marry him.
During her sister's paroxysm, Mrs. Bindle preserveda dignified silence. She always deplored Mrs. Hearty's lack of self-control.
"There are the neighbours to consider," she continued at length. Mrs. Bindle's thoughts were always with her brother-in-law. "Look how low her blouse was."
"It's 'ealthy," puffed Mrs. Hearty, who could always be depended upon to find excuses for a black sheep's blackness.
"I call it disgusting." Mrs. Bindle's mouth shut with a snap.
"You——" Mrs. Hearty's reply was stifled in a sudden fit of coughing. She heaved and struggled for breath, while her face took on a deep purple hue.
Mrs. Bindle rose and proceeded to bestow a series of resounding smacks with the flat of her hand upon Mrs. Hearty's ample back. There was a heartiness in the blows that savoured of the Old rather than the New Testament.
Nearly five minutes elapsed before Mrs. Hearty was sufficiently recovered to explain that a crumb had gone the wrong way.
"Serves you right for encouraging that girl in her wickedness," was Mrs. Bindle's unsympathetic comment as she returned to her chair. Vaguely she saw in her sister's paroxysm, the rebuke of a frowning Providence.
"You wasn't always like wot you are now," complained Mrs. Hearty at length.
"I never dressed anything like that girl." There was a note of fierceness in Mrs. Bindle's voice,"and I defy you to say I did, Martha Hearty, so there."
"Didn't I 'ave to speak to you once about your stockings?" Mrs. Hearty's recent attack seemed to have rendered speech easier.
"No wonder you choke," snapped Mrs. Bindle angrily, "saying things like that."
"Didn't the boys shout after you 'yaller legs'?" she gasped, determined to get the full flavour out of the incident. "They wasn't worn coloured then."
"I wonder you aren't afraid of being struck dead," cried Mrs. Bindle furiously.
"And you goin' out in muslin and a thin petticoat, and yer legs showin' through and the lace on——"
"Don't you dare——" Mrs. Bindle stopped, her utterance strangled. Her face was scarlet, and in her eyes was murder. She was conscious that her past was a past of vanity; but those were days she had put behind her, days when she would spend every penny she could scrape together upon her person.
But Mrs. Hearty was oblivious to the storm of anger that her words had aroused in her sister's heart. The recollection of the yellow stockings and the transparent muslin frock was too much for her, and she was off into splutters and wheezes of mirth, among which an occasional "Oh don't!" was distinguishable.
"I don't know what's coming to girls, I'm sure," cried Mrs. Bindle at length. She had to some extent regained her composure, and was desirous of turning the conversation from herself. She lived in fear ofher sister's frankness; Mrs. Hearty never censored a wardrobe before speaking of it.
"They're a lot of brazen hussies," continued Mrs. Bindle, "displaying themselves like they do. I can't think why they do it."
"Men!" grunted Mrs. Hearty.
"Don't be disgusting, Martha."
"You always was a fool, Lizzie," said Mrs. Hearty good-humouredly.
Mrs. Bindle was determined not to allow the subject of Alice's indelicate display of her person to escape her. She had merely been waiting her opportunity to return to the charge.
"You should think of Mr. Hearty," she said unctuously; "he's got a position to keep up, and people will talk, seeing that girl going out like that."
At this, Mrs. Hearty once more became helpless with suppressed laughter. Her manifold chins vibrated, tears streamed down her cheeks, and she wheezed and gasped and struck her chest, fierce, resounding blows.
"Oh, my God!" she gasped at length. "You'll be the death of me, Lizzie," and then another wave of laughter assailed her, and she was off again.
Presently, as the result of an obvious effort, she spluttered, "'E likes it, too," she ended in a little scream of laughter. "You watch him. Oh, oh, I shall die!" she gasped.
"Martha, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she cried angrily. "You're as bad as Bindle."
For fully a minute, Mrs. Hearty rocked and heaved,as she strove to find utterance for something that seemed to be stifling her.
"You don't know Alf!" she gasped at length, as she mopped her face with the dingy pocket-handkerchief. "Alice gives notice," she managed to gasp. "Alf tries to kiss——" and speech once more forsook her.
The look in Mrs. Bindle's eyes was that she usually kept for blasphemers. Mr. Hearty was the god of her idolatry, impeccable, austere and unimpeachable. The mere suggestion that he should behave in a way she would not expect even Bindle to behave, filled her with loathing, and she determined that her sister would eventually share the fate of Sapphira.
"Martha, you're a disgrace," she cried, rising. "You might at least have the decency not to drag Mr. Hearty's name into your unclean conversation. I think you owe him an apology for——"
At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Hearty entered.
"Didn't you, Alf?" demanded Mrs. Hearty.
"Didn't I what, Martha?" asked Mr. Hearty in a thin, woolly voice. "Good evening, Elizabeth," he added, turning to Mrs. Bindle.
"Didn't you try to kiss Alice, and she slapped your face?" Mrs. Hearty once more proceeded to mop her streaming eyes with her handkerchief. The comedy was good; but it was painful.
For one fleeting moment Mr. Hearty was unmasked. His whole expression underwent a change. There was fear in his eyes. He looked about him like a huntedanimal seeking escape. Then, by a great effort, he seemed to re-assert control over himself.
"I—I've forgotten to post a letter," he muttered, and a second later the door closed behind him.
"'E's always like that when I remind him," cried Mrs. Hearty, "always forgotten to post a letter."
"Martha," said Mrs. Bindle solemnly, as she resumed her seat, "you're a wicked woman, and to-night I shall ask God to forgive you."
"Make it Alf instead," cried Mrs. Hearty.
Five minutes later, Mr. Hearty re-entered the parlour, looking furtively from his wife to Mrs. Bindle. He was a spare man of medium height, with an iron-grey moustache and what Bindle described as "'alleluia whiskers"; but which the world knows as mutton-chops. He was a man to whom all violence, be it physical or verbal, was distasteful. He preferred diplomacy to the sword.
"Oo's got it, Alf?" enquired Mrs. Hearty, suddenly remembering the chapel choir and her husband's aspirations.
"Mr. Coplestone." The natural woolliness of Mr. Hearty's voice was emphasised by the dejection of disappointment; but his eyes told of the relief he felt that Alice was no longer to be the topic of conversation.
"It's a shame, Mr. Hearty, that it is."
Mrs. Bindle folded her hands in her lap and drew in her chin, with the air of one who scents a great injustice. The injustice of the appointment quite blotted-out from her mind all thought of Alice.
"You got quite enough to do, Alf," wheezed Mrs. Hearty as, after many ineffectual bounces, she struggled to her feet, and stood swaying slightly as she beat her breast reproachfully.
"I could have found time," said Mr. Hearty, as he picked nervously at the quicks of his finger-nails.
"Of course you could," agreed Mrs. Bindle, looking up at her sister disapprovingly.
"I've never once missed a choir-practice," he continued, with the air of a man who is advancing a definite claim.
"Trust you," gasped Mrs. Hearty, as she rolled towards the door. "It's them gals," she added. "Good-night, Lizzie. Don't be long, Alf. You always wake me getting into bed," and, with a final wheeze, she passed out of the room.
Mr. Hearty coughed nervously behind his hand; whilst Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips and chin still further. The indelicacy of Mrs. Hearty's remark embarrassed them both.
It had always been Mr. Hearty's wish to train the choir at the Alton Road Chapel, and when Mr. Smithers had resigned, owing to chronic bronchitis and the approach of winter, Mr. Hearty felt that the time had come when yet another of his ambitions was to be realised. There had proved, however, to be another Richmond in the field, in the shape of Mr. Coplestone, who kept an oil-shop in the New King's Road.
By some means unknown to Mr. Hearty, his rival had managed to invest the interest of the ministerand several of the deacons, with the result that Mr. Hearty had come out a very bad second.
Now, in the hour of defeat, he yearned for sympathy, and there was only one to whom he could turn, his sister-in-law, who shared so many of his earthly views and heavenly hopes. Would his sister-in-law believe——
"I call it a shame," she said for the second time, as Mr. Hearty drew a deep sigh of relief. In spite of herself, Mrs. Bindle was irritated at the way in which he picked at the quicks of his finger-nails, "and you so musical, too," she added.
"I have always been interested in music," said Mr. Hearty, with the air of one who knows that he is receiving nothing but his due. Alice and her alluring clothing were forgotten. "I had learned the Tonic Sol-fa notation by heart before I was twenty," he added.
"You would have done so much to improve the singing." Mrs. Bindle was intent only on applying balm to her hero's wounds. She too had forgotten Alice and all her ways.
"It isn't what it might be," he remarked. "It has been very indifferent lately. Several have noticed it. Last Sunday, they nearly broke down in 'The Half Was Never Told.'"
Mrs. Bindle nodded.
"They always find it difficult to get high 'f'," he continued. "I should have made a point of cultivating their upper registers," he added, with the melancholy retrospection of a man who, after a fire, states that it had been his intention to insure on the morrow.
"Perhaps——" began Mrs. Bindle, then she stopped. It seemed unchristian to say that perhaps Mr. Coplestone would have to relinquish his newly acquired honour.
"I should also have tried to have the American organ tuned, I don't think the bellows is very sound, either."
For some minutes there was silence. Mr. Hearty was preoccupied with the quicks of his finger-nails. He had just succeeded in drawing blood, and he glanced covertly at Mrs. Bindle to see if she had noticed it.
"Er——" he paused. He had been seeking an opportunity of clearing his character with his sister-in-law. Suddenly inspiration gripped him.
"I—we——" he paused. "I'm afraid Martha will have to get rid of Alice."
"And about time, with clothes like she wears," was Mrs. Bindle's uncompromising comment.
"And she tells—she's most untruthful," he continued eagerly; he was smarting under the recollection that Alice had on one occasion pushed aside the half-crown he had tendered, and it had required a ten shilling note to remove from her memory the thought of her "friend" with whom she had threatened him.
"I've been speaking about her to Martha this evening." The line of Mrs. Bindle's lips was still grim.
"I'm afraid she's a bad—not a good girl," amended Mr. Hearty. "I——"
"You don't push yourself forward enough," said Mrs. Bindle, her thoughts still on Mr. Coplestone's victory. "Look at Bindle. He knows a lord, andlook what he is." She precipitated into the last two words all the venom of years of disappointment. "And you've got three shops," she added inconsequently.
"I—I never had time to go out and about," stuttered Mr. Hearty, as if that explained the fact of his not possessing a lord among his acquaintance. His thoughts were still preoccupied with the Alice episode.
"You ought to, Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction. "You owe it to yourself and to what you've done."
"You see, Joseph is different," said Mr. Hearty, pursuing his own line of thought. "He——"
"Talks too much," said Mrs. Bindle with decision, filling in the blank inaccurately. "I tell him his fine friends only laugh up their sleeves at him. They should see him in his own home," she added.
For some moments there was silence, during which Mrs. Bindle sat, immobile as an Assyrian goddess, her eyes smouldering balefully.
"I should have liked to have trained the choir," he said, his mind returning to the cause of his disappointment.
"It's that Mr. Coplestone," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction. "I never liked him, with his foxy little ways. I never deal with him."
"I have always done what I could for the chapel, too," continued Mr. Hearty, not to be diverted from his main theme by reference to Mr. Coplestone's shortcomings.
"You've done too much, Mr. Hearty, that's what'sthe matter," she cried with conviction, loyalty to her brother-in-law triumphing over all sense of Christian charity. "It's always the same. Look at Bindle," she added, unable to forget entirely her own domestic cross. "Think what I've done for him, and look at him."
"Last year I let them have all the fruit at cost price for the choir-outing," said Mr. Hearty; "but I'll never do it again," he added, the man in him triumphing over the martyr, "and I picked it all out myself."
"The more you do, the more you may do," said Mrs. Bindle oracularly.
Mr. Hearty's reference was to a custom prevailing among the worshippers at the Alton Road Chapel. It was an understood thing that, in placing orders, preference should always be given to members of the flock, who, on their part, undertook to supply their respective commodities at cost price. The object of this was to bring all festivities "within reach of our poorer brethren," as Mr. Sopley, a one-time minister, had expressed it when advocating the principle.
The result was hours of heart-searching for those entrusted with the feeding of the Faithful. Mr. Hearty, for instance, spent much time and thought in wrestling with figures and his conscience. He argued that "cost price" must allow for rent, rates and taxes; salaries, a knowledge of the cheapest markets (which he possessed) and interest on capital (his own).
By a curious coincidence, the actual figures came out very little above the ordinary retail price he was charging in his shops, which proved to him conclusivelythat he was in no sense of the term a profiteer. As a matter of fact, it showed that he was under-charging.
Other members of the chapel seemed to arrive at practically the same result as Mr. Hearty, and by similar means.
As the "poorer brethren" had no voice in the fixing of these prices, and as everyone was too interested in his own figures to think of criticising those of others, the "poorer brethren" either paid, or stayed away.
"You ought to join the choir, Elizabeth." It was Mr. Hearty's thank-offering for sympathy.
"Oh, Mr. Hearty!" she simpered. "I'm sure I couldn't sing well enough."
"You sing very nicely, Elizabeth. I have noticed it on Sunday evenings when you come round. You have a very good high soprano."
A quiver passed through Mrs. Bindle. She drew herself up, and her lips seemed to take on a softer line.
"I'm sure it's very good of you to say so," she responded gratefully.
"I shall still sing in the choir," said Mr. Hearty; "but——"
A heavy pounding overhead caused him to start violently. It was Mrs. Hearty's curfew.
Mrs. Bindle rose and Mr. Hearty accompanied her to the street-door. Alice was in the passage, apparently on her way to bed.
"Good night, Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle.
"Good night, Elizabeth," and Mr. Hearty closed the door behind her.
She paused to open her umbrella, it was spottingwith rain and Mrs. Bindle was careful of her clothes.
Suddenly through the open transom she heard a surprised scream and the sound of scuffling.
"You beast," cried a feminine voice. "I'll tell missis, that I will."
And Mrs. Bindle turned and ran full-tilt into a policeman.