Adventures of Bindle

by Herbert George Jenkins

  CHAPTER VII

  THE COURTING OF THE REV. ANDREW MACFIE

  Mr. Hearty had never reconciled himself to the understanding thatexisted between his daughter Millie and Charlie Dixon. He resentedBindle's share in the romance, still more he resented the spirit ofindependence that it had developed in Millie. He had, however, beenforced to bow to the storm. Everyone was against him, and Millieherself had left home, refusing to return until he had apologised toher for the most unseemly suggestion he had made as to her relationswith Charlie Dixon.

  Sergeant Charles Dixon, of the 110th Service Battalion, LondonRegiment, had gone to the front, and Millie, sad-eyed, but grave,looked forward to the time when he would return, a V.C.

  "Well, Millikins!" Bindle would cry, "'ow's 'is Nibs?" and Milliewould blush and tell of the latest news she had received from herlover.

  "Uncle Joe," she would say, "I couldn't stand it but for you," andthere would be that in her voice which would cause Bindle to turn hishead aside and admonish himself as "an ole fool."

  "It's all right, Millikins," Bindle would say, "Charlie's goin' to winthe war, an' we're all goin' to be proud of 'im," and Millie wouldsmile at her uncle with moist eyes, and give that affectionate squeezeto his arm that Bindle would not have parted with for the rubies ofInd.

  "You know, Uncle Joe," she said bravely on one occasion, "we womenhave to give up those we love."

  Bindle had not seen the plaintive humour of her remark; but hadsuddenly become noisily engrossed in the use of his handkerchief.

  Mr. Hearty was almost cordial to Charlie Dixon on the eve of his goingto France. Once this young man could be removed from Millie's path,the way would be clear for a match such as he had in mind. He did notknow exactly what sort of man he desired for his daughter; but he wasvery definite as to the position in the world that his futureson-in-law must occupy. He would have preferred someone who had madehis mark. Men of more mature years, he had noticed, were frequentlyfavourably disposed towards young girls as wives, and Mr. Hearty wasdetermined that he would be proud of his son-in-law, that is to say,his son-in-law was to be a man of whom anyone might feel proud.

  It would not behove a Christian such as Mr. Hearty to wish afellow-being dead; but he could not disguise from himself the factthat our casualties on the Western Front were heavy, particularlyduring the period of offensives. Since the occasion when Millie hadasserted her independence, and had declined to order her affections inaccordance with Mr. Hearty's wishes, there had been something of anarmed neutrality existing between father and daughter. In this she hadbeen supported, not only by Bindle and Mrs. Hearty, but, by a strangefreak of fate, to a certain extent, by Mrs. Bindle herself.

  Mr. Hearty had never quite understood how it was that hissister-in-law had turned against him. She had said nothing whatever asto where her sympathies lay; but Mr. Hearty instinctively felt thatshe had ranged herself on the side of the enemy.

  But the fates were playing for Mr. Hearty.

  When the Rev. Mr. Sopley, of the Alton Road Chapel, had decided toretire on account of failing health, Lady Knob-Kerrick determined tobring up from Barton Bridge, her country residence, the Rev. AndrewMacFie. She had forgiven him his participation in the Temperance Fetefiasco, accepting his explanation that he had been drugged by thedisciples of the devil, a view that would have been entirely endorsedby Mrs. Bindle, had she known that Bindle was responsible for themixing of alcohol with the lemonade.

  The Barton Bridge Temperance Fete fiasco had proved the greatestsensation that the county had ever known. The mixing of crude alcoholand distilled mead with the lemonade, whereby the participants in therustic fete had been intoxicated, thus causing it to develop into awild orgy of violence, resulting in assaults upon Lady Knob-Kerrickand the police, had been a nine days' wonder. A number of arrests hadbeen made; but when the true facts came to the knowledge of thepolice, the prisoners had been quietly released, and officiallynothing more was heard of the affair.

  It was a long time before Lady Knob-Kerrick could be persuaded to seein the Rev. Andrew MacFie, the minister of her chapel, an innocentvictim of a deep-laid plot. It was he who had seized the hose thatwashed her out of her carriage, it was he who had led the assault onthe police, it was he who had said things that had been the commontalk of all the public-house bars for miles round.

  After Mr. MacFie's eloquent sermon upon the Gadarene swine, LadyKnob-Kerrick had eventually come round, and a peace had been patchedup between them. From that day it required more courage to whisper thewords "Temperance Fete" in Barton Bridge, than to charge across "NoMan's Land" in France.

  And so it was that the Rev. Andrew MacFie transferred his activitiesfrom Barton Bridge to Fulham. He was grateful to Providence for thissign of beneficent approval of his labours, and relieved to know thatBarton Bridge would in the future be but a memory. There he had madehistory, for in the bars of The Two-Faced Earl and The Blue Fox theunbeliever drinks with gusto and a wink of superior knowledge abeverage known as a "lemon-and-a-mac," a compound of lemonade and gin,which owes its origin to the part played in the historic temperancefete by the Rev. Andrew MacFie.

  One evening, shortly after the departure of Charlie Dixon, Mrs. Bindlewas busily engaged in laying the table for supper. Mrs. Bindle'skitchen was a model of what a kitchen should be. Everything was clean,orderly, neat. The utensils over the mantelpiece shone like miniaturemoons, the oil-cloth was spotless, the dresser scrubbed to a whitenessalmost incredible in London, the saucepans almost as clean outside asin, the rug before the stove neatly pinned down at the corners. It wasobviously the kitchen of a woman to whom cleanliness and order werefetiches. As Bindle had once remarked, "There's only one spot in mymissis' kitchen, and that's when I'm there."

  As she proceeded with her work she hummed her favourite hymn; it roseand fell, sometimes dying away altogether. She banged the variousarticles on the table as if to emphasise her thoughts. Her taskcompleted, she went to the sink. As she was washing her hands therewas a knock at the kitchen door. Taking no notice she proceeded to dryher hands. The knock was repeated.

  "Oh, don't stand there playing the fool, Bindle!" she snapped. "Ihaven't time to----"

  The door opened slowly and admitted the tall, lanky form of the Rev.Andrew MacFie.

  "It's me, Mrs. Beendle," he said, as he entered the room. "The outerdoor was open, so I joost cam in."

  "Oh! I'm sorry, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, "I thought it was Bindle."

  Her whole manner underwent a change; her uncompromising attitude ofdisapproval giving place to one of almost servile anxiety to make agood impression. She hurriedly removed and folded her apron, slippingit into the dresser-drawer.

  "Won't you come into the parlour, sir?" she said. "It's very kind ofyou to call."

  "Na, na, Mrs. Beendle," replied Mr. MacFie. "I joost cam into--to----" He hesitated.

  "But won't you sit down, sir?" Mrs. Bindle indicated a chair by theside of the table.

  Mr. MacFie drew the chair towards him, sitting bolt upright, holdinghis soft felt hat upon his knees.

  Mrs. Bindle drew another chair from under the opposite side of thetable and seated herself primly upon it. With folded hands she waitedfor the minister to speak.

  Mr. MacFie was obviously ill at ease.

  "Ye'll be comin' to the sairvice, the nicht, Mrs. Beendle?" he began.

  "Oh, yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle, moving her head back on hershoulders, depressing her chin and drawing in her lips with a simper."I wouldn't miss your address."

  "Aye!" said Mr. MacFie, gazing into vacancy as if in search ofinspiration. Finding none, he repeated "Aye!"

  Mr. MacFie's expression was one of persistent gloom. No smile was everpermitted to wanton across his sandy features. After a few moments'silence he made another effort.

  "I'm sair consairned, Mrs. Beendle----" He stopped, wordless.

  "Yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle encouragingly.

  "I'm sair consairned no to see the wee lassie more at the kirk."

>   "Who, sir, Millie?" queried Mrs. Bindle in surprise.

  "Aye!" responded Mr. MacFie. "The call of mammon is like the blairstof a great trumpet, and to the unbelieving it is as sweet music. It isthe call of Satan, Mrs. Beendle, the call of Satan," he repeated, asif pleased with the phrase. "I'd na like the wee lassie to--to----"

  "I'll speak to Mr. Hearty, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, compressing herlips. "It's very good of you, sir, I'm sure, to----"

  "Na, na," interrupted Mr. MacFie hastily, "na, na, Mrs. Beendle, maduty. It is the blessed duty of the shepherd to be consairned for thewelfare----"

  He stopped suddenly. The outer door had banged, and there was thesound of steps coming along the passage. Bindle's voice was heardsinging cheerily, "I'd rather Kiss the Mistress than the Maid." Heopened the door and stopped singing suddenly. For a moment he stoodlooking at the pair with keen enjoyment. Both Mrs. Bindle and Mr.MacFie appeared self-conscious, as they gazed obliquely at theinterrupter.

  "'Ullo, caught you," said Bindle jocosely.

  "Bindle!" There was horror and anger in Mrs. Bindle's voice. Mr.MacFie merely looked uncomfortable. He rose hastily.

  "I must be gaeing, Mrs. Beendle," he said; then turning to Bindleremarked, "I joost cam to enquire if Mrs. Beendle was coming to chapelthe nicht."

  "Don't you fret about that, sir," said Bindle genially. "She wouldn'tmiss a chance to pray."

  "And--and may we expect you, Mr. Beendle?" enquired Mr. MacFie by wayof making conversation and preventing an embarrassing silence.

  "I ain't much on religion, sir," replied Bindle hastily. "Mrs. B.'sthe one for that. Lemonade and religion are things, sir, wot I can betrusted with. I don't touch neither." Then, as Mr. MacFie movedtowards the door, he added, "Must you go, sir? You won't stay an' 'avea bit o' supper?"

  "Na, na!" replied Mr. MacFie hastily, "I hae the Lord's work to do,Mr. Beendle, the Lord's work to do," he repeated as he shook handswith Mrs. Bindle and then with Bindle. "The Lord's work to do," herepeated for a third time as, followed by Mrs. Bindle, he left theroom.

  "Funny thing that the Lord's work should make 'im look like that,"remarked Bindle meditatively, as he drew a tin of salmon from hispocket.

  When Mrs. Bindle returned to the kitchen it was obvious that she wasseriously displeased. The bangs that punctuated the process of"dishing-up" were good fortissimo bangs.

  Bindle continued to read his paper imperturbably. In his nostrils wasthe scent of a favourite stew. He lifted his head like a hound,appreciatively sniffing the air, a look of contentment overspreadinghis features.

  Having poured out the contents of the saucepan, Mrs. Bindle went tothe sink and filled the vessel with water. Carrying it across thekitchen, she banged it down on the stove. Opening the front, andpicking up the poker, she gave the fire several unnecessary jabs.

  "Wot did Sandy want?" enquired Bindle as he got to work upon hissupper.

  "Don't talk to me," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "You'd try a saint, youwould, insulting the minister in that way."

  "Insultin'! Me!" cried Bindle in surprise. "Why, I only cheer-o'd'im."

  "You'll never learn 'ow to behave," stormed Mrs. Bindle, losing hertemper and her aitches. "Look at you now, all dressed up and leavingme alone."

  Bindle was wearing his best clothes, for some reason known only tohimself.

  "Anyone would think you was goin' to a weddin'," continued Mrs.Bindle.

  "Not again," said Bindle cheerfully. "Wot was ole Scotch-an'-Sodaafter?" he enquired.

  "When you ask me a proper question, I'll give you a proper answer,"announced Mrs. Bindle.

  "Oh, Lord!" said Bindle with mock resignation. "Well, wot did theReverend MacAndrew want?"

  "He came to enquire why Millie was so often absent from chapel. Ishall have to speak to Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle.

  Bindle's reply was a prolonged whistle. "'E's after Millikins, is 'e?"he muttered.

  That is how both Bindle and Mrs. Bindle first learned that the Rev.Andrew MacFie was interested in their pretty niece, Millie Hearty.

  Mrs. Bindle mentioned the fact of Mr. MacFie's call to Mr. Hearty, andfrom that moment he had seen in the minister a potential son-in-law.

  The angular piety of Mr. MacFie rendered him an awkward, not to say aclumsy, lover.

  "I likes to see ole Mac a-'angin' round Millikins," remarked Bindle toMrs. Bindle one evening over supper. "It's like an 'ippopotamusa-givin' the glad-eye to a canary."

  "Heathen!" was Mrs. Bindle's sole comment.

  Millie Hearty herself had been much troubled by Mr. MacFie's ponderousattentions. At first she had regarded them merely as the friendlyinterest of a pastor in a member of his flock; but soon they becametoo obvious for misinterpretation.

  "Millikins!" said Bindle one evening, as he and Millie were walkinghome from the pictures, "you ain't a-goin' to forget Charlie, areyou?"

  "Uncle Joe!" There was reproach in Millie's voice as she withdrew herarm from Bindle's.

  "All right, Millikins," said Bindle, capturing her hand and placing itthrough his arm, "don't get 'uffy. Ole Mac's been makin' such a deadset at you, that I wanted to know 'ow things stood."

  Bindle's remarks had opened the flood-gates of Millie's confidence.She told him that she had not liked to speak of it before becausenothing had been said, although there had been some very obvious hintsfrom Mr. Hearty.

  "I _hate_ him, Uncle Joe. He's always--always----" She paused,blushing.

  "A-givin' of you the glad-eye," suggested Bindle. "I seen 'im."

  "Oh, he's horrible, Uncle Joe. I'm sure he's a wicked man."

  "'Course 'e is," replied Bindle with conviction, "or 'e wouldn't be aparson."

  Bindle had spoken to Mr. Hearty about the matter. "Look 'ere, 'Earty,you ain't goin' back on them two love-birds, are you?" he enquired.

  Mr. Hearty had regarded his brother-in-law with what he conceived tobe reproving dignity.

  "I do not understand, Joseph," he remarked in hollow, woolly tones.

  "Well, there's ole Mac, always a-givin' the glad-eye to Millikins,"explained Bindle.

  "If you wish to speak of our minister, Joseph, you must do sorespectfully, and I cannot listen to such vulgar suggestions."

  "Oh, come orf of it, 'Earty! you're only a greengrocer, an'greengrocers don't talk like that 'ere, whatever they may do in'eaven. If you're a-goin' to 'ave any 'anky-panky with Millikins overthat sandy-'aired son of a tub-thumper, then you're up against thebiggest thing in your life, an' don't you forget it."

  Bindle was angry.

  "Of late, Joseph," Mr. Hearty replied, "you have shown too much desireto interfere in my private affairs, and I cannot permit it."

  "Oh! you can't, can't you?" said Bindle. "Don't you forget, ole sport,that if it 'adn't a-been for me 'oldin' my tongue, you wouldn't 'ave'ad no bloomin' affairs for me to mix up in."

  Mr. Hearty paled and fumbled with the right lapel of his coat.

  "Any'ow," said Bindle, "Millikins is goin' to marry Charlie Dixon, an'if you're goin' to try any of your dirty tricks over OleSkin-and-Oatmeal, then you're goin' to be up against J.B. There aretimes," muttered Bindle, as he walked away from the Heartys' house,"when 'Earty gets my goat"; and he started whistling shrilly to cheerhimself up.

  Bindle was still troubled in his mind about Mr. Hearty's scheme forMillie's future and, one Sunday evening, he determined to forgo theNight Club, in order to call upon the Heartys with the object ofconveying to Mr. MacFie in the course of conversation that Millie wasirrevocably pledged to Charlie Dixon.

  Mr. MacFie had formed the habit of supping with the Heartys afterevening service, and frequently Mrs. Bindle was of the party.

  Bindle's Sunday evening engagements at the Night Club had been a causeof great relief to Mrs. Bindle. For some time previously Mr. Hearty'sinvitations to the Bindles to take supper on Sunday evenings had beengrowing less and less frequent. It did not require a very great effortof the imagination to discover the cause. Bindle's racy speech andunconventional views upon religion
were to Mr. Hearty anathema, andwhilst they amused Mrs. Hearty, who, having trouble with her breath,did not seem to consider that religion was meant for her, they causedMr. Hearty intense anguish. He felt safe, however, in asking Mr.MacFie to supper on Sundays because Mrs. Bindle had confided to himthat Bindle was always engaged upon the Sabbath night. She did notmention the nature of the engagement.

  When Bindle entered the drawing-room, Mr. Hearty, Mr. MacFie, Mr.Gupperduck and Mrs. Bindle were gathered round the harmonium. Mrs.Hearty sat in her customary place upon the sofa waiting for someone toaddress her that she might confide in them upon the all-absorbingsubject of her breath.

  Mr. Gupperduck was seated on a chair, endeavouring to discipline hisaccordion into not sounding E sharp continuously through each hymn.The others were awaiting with keen interest the outcome of thestruggle.

  "Got a pain, ain't it?" enquired Bindle, having greeted everybody, ashe stood puffing volumes of smoke from one of "Sprague's FulhamWhiffs," a "smoke" he still affected when Lord Windover was notpresent to correct his taste in tobacco.

  "Well, wot's the joke?" he went on, looking from the lugubriouscountenance of Mr. MacFie to the melancholy foreboding depicted onthat of Mr. Hearty.

  Turning to Mrs. Hearty, Bindle pointed his cigar at her accusingly."You been tellin' naughty stories, Martha," he said, "I can see it.Look at them coves over there"; he turned his cigar towards Mr.Gupperduck and Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Martha, Martha!" and he wagged hishead solemnly at Mrs. Hearty, who was already in a state of helplesslaughter, "ain't you jest the limit, and 'im a parson, too."

  Millie Hearty entered the room at this moment and ran up to her uncle,greeting him affectionately.

  "Oh, Uncle Joe, I'm so glad you've come," she cried. "You never cometo see us now."

  "Well, well, Millikins, it can't be 'elped. It's the war, you know.That cove Llewellyn John is always wantin' me round to give 'imadvice. Then I 'ave to run over an' give Haig an 'int or two. Ain'tthe Kayser jest mad when 'e 'ears I been over, because it meansanother push. Why, would you believe it, sir," he turned to Mr.MacFie, "the reason they didn't make ole 'Indenburg a prince lastbirthday was because 'e 'adn't been able to land me.

  "'Get me Joe Bindle, dead or alive,' said the Kayser to 'Indy, 'an'I'll make you a prince,' an' ain't old 'Indenburg ratty." Bindlenodded his head knowingly.

  Millie laughed. "You mustn't tell such wicked fibs on Sunday, UncleJoe," she cried. "It's very naughty of you."

  Bindle pulled her down upon his knee and kissed her. "You ain't goin'agin your ole uncle, are you, Millikins?" he cried; then suddenlyturning to Mr. Hearty he enquired, "Ain't we goin' to 'ave any 'ymns,'Earty? 'Ere, I say, can't you stop Wheezy Willie doin' that, olesport?" this to Mr. Gupperduck who was still struggling to silence themutinous E sharp; "sets my teeth on edge, it does. I'm in rare voiceto-night, bought some acid drops, I did, as I come along, an' 'ad tworaw eggs in the private bar of The Yellow Ostrich."

  Bindle ran up a dubious scale to prove his words.

  "Oh! do be quiet, Uncle Joe," laughed Millie. "You'll frighten Mr.MacFie away."

  Bindle turned and regarded the solemn visage of Mr. MacFie; his longimmobile upper lip; his sandy hair, parted in the middle and brushedsmoothly down upon his head.

  "No, Millikins," he said with conviction, "there ain't nothink wot'llfrighten a Scotchman out of England. They know wot's wot, they do.Ain't that so, sir?" he enquired of Mr. MacFie.

  Mr. MacFie regarded Bindle as if he were talking in a foreign tongue.

  Mr. Gupperduck laid his accordion on a chair, giving up the unequalstruggle. The others, taking this as a signal that music was over forthe evening, seated themselves in various parts of the room.

  "I'm glad you're 'ere, sir," said Bindle to Mr. MacFie. "I wanted youradvice on somethink in the Bible. Now then, Millikins, you got to sitdown beside me. Can't sit on your uncle's knee when we're talkin'about the Bible. Wot'll Charlie say?" Then turning to Mr. MacFie withwhat he imagined to be great subtlety and tact, Bindle enquired, "Youain't met Charlie Dixon, 'ave you, sir?"

  Mr. MacFie shook a mournful head in negation.

  "'E's goin' to marry Millikins, ain't 'e, Millikins?"

  Millie cast her eyes down and, with heightened colour, bowed her headin affirmation of Bindle's statement.

  "Pretty pair they'll make too," said Bindle with conviction. "I 'opeyou'll be marryin' 'em, sir."

  Mr. MacFie looked uncomfortable.

  "But that ain't wot I wanted to talk to you about," continued Bindle."I 'appened to pick up the Bible to-day,"--Mrs. Bindle looked sharplyat him,--"and it sort of opened at a place where there was a yarnabout war, so I read it.

  "It was about a cove called Urrier an' a king named David."

  "Uriah the Hittite," murmured Mr. Hearty.

  "Urrier 'ad got a smart bird,--that's a gal, sir," Bindle explained toMr. MacFie,--"and David 'ad sort o' taken a likin' to 'er, so wot doesDavid do but send Urrier to the front, so as 'e might get killed, an'then David pinches 'is gal.

  "Now wot I want to know, sir," said Bindle, addressing Mr. MacFie, "iswot Gawd did? 'Cos as far as I can see 'E was sort o' fond o' David.Now if I'd been Gawd, an' David 'ad done a thing like that, I'd 'araised a pretty big blister on 'is nose."

  No one spoke. Mr. Hearty glanced covertly at Mr. MacFie, who looked asif he would have given much to be elsewhere. Mrs. Bindle's lips hadentirely disappeared. Mrs. Hearty gasped and heaved, whilst Minnieblushed.

  "Bindle!" cried Mrs. Bindle at last; "Bindle, you forget yourself."

  "Not me, Mrs. B., I come 'ere to get wot you an' 'Earty calls 'light.'Now, sir," turning to Mr. MacFie, "wot do you think Gawd did, an' wotdo you think o' that blighter David?"

  "Meester Beendle," said Mr. MacFie at last, "we must leave toProveedence the things that belong to Proveedence."

  "I thought you'd agree, sir; you're a sport, you are. Of course Davidought to 'ave left to Urrier wot belonged to Urrier, and not pinch 'isgal. You wouldn't do a thing like that, sir, would you?" he enquired."I wonder wot the gal thought, eh, Millikins?" he enquired, turning tohis niece.

  "If I had been her," said Millie, "I should have killed David."

  "Millie!" gasped Mr. Hearty. "How--how dare you say such a thing."

  "I should, father," replied Millie quietly.

  Mr. MacFie coughed, Mr. Hearty looked about him as if for something atwhich to clutch, then with sudden inspiration he said, "Millie, wewill have a hymn."

  "'Ere, let me get out," cried Bindle in mock alarm. "I can't standWheezy Willie again, too much of one note. Good night, Martha. My,ain't you gettin' fat," he remarked as he stood looking down at Mrs.Hearty, whereat she went off into wheezes and heavings of laughter."S'long, 'Earty, I 'ope the allotments won't ruin you," and Bindletook his departure.

  Millie went down to the door to see him out. "Uncle Joe," shewhispered, as she bade him good night, "I understood."

  "Oh, you did, did you?" said Bindle. "Ain't we getting a wise littlepuss, Millikins," and Bindle walked home whistling "The Long, LongTrail."