CHAPTER XII
MRS. BINDLE BREAKS AN ARMISTICE
I
"Pleasant company, you are," snapped Mrs. Bindle, as she made anonslaught upon the kitchen fire, jabbing it viciously with a short steelpoker.
Bindle looked up from the newspaper he was reading. It was the thirdattack upon the kitchen fire within the space of five minutes, and herecognised the portents--a storm was brewing.
"I might as well be on a desert island for all the company you are," shecontinued. "Here am I alone all day long with no one to speak to, andwhen you come home you just sit reading the horse-racing news in thepaper."
"Wot jer like to talk about?" he enquired, allowing the paper to drop tothe floor opposite him.
She sniffed angrily and threw the poker into the ash-pan.
"I wasn't readin' about racin'," he continued pacifically. "I was jestreadin' about a cove wot went orf with another cove's missis, 'is bestovercoat and two chickens."
"Stop it!" She stood over him, her lips compressed, her eyes hard andsteely, as if meditating violence, then, turning suddenly, she walkedswiftly across to the dresser and pulled out the left-hand drawer.Taking from it her bonnet, she put it on her head and proceeded to tiethe strings beneath her chin.
From behind the kitchen door she unhooked a brown mackintosh, into whichshe struggled.
"Goin' out?" he enquired.
"Yes," she replied, as she tore open the door, "and perhaps I'll nevercome back again," and with a bang that shook the house she was gone.
She took a tram to Hammersmith on her way to see her niece, MillieDixon. She was angry; the day had been one of continual annoyances andvexations. Entering the car she buried her elbows deep into theredundant figure of a woman who was also endeavouring to enter.
Once inside, the woman began to inform the car what she thought of"scraggy 'Uns with faces like a drop of vinegar on the edge of a knife."
"That's the way you gets cancer," she continued, as she stroked the leftside of her ample bust. "People with elbows like that should 'ave 'empadded," and Mrs. Bindle was conscious that the car was with herantagonist.
Mrs. Bindle next proceeded to quarrel with the conductor about the fare,which had gone up a halfpenny, and she ended by threatening to reporthim for not setting her down between the scheduled stopping-places.
"She's lost a Bradbury and found the water-rate," remarked theconductor, as he turned once more to the occupants of the car afterwatching Mrs. Bindle alight.
The fat woman responded to the pleasantry by expressing her views on"them wot don't know 'ow to be'ave theirselves like ladies."
With Mrs. Bindle, the lure of Joseph the Second was strong within her.When her loneliness became too great for endurance, or the domesticatmosphere manifested signs of a greater voltage than the normal, herthoughts instinctively flew to the blue-eyed nephew, who slobbered andcooed at her and raised his chubby fists in meaningless gestures. Thenthe hunger within her would be appeased, until some chance mention ofBindle's name would awaken her self-pity.
She found Millie alone with Joseph the Second asleep in his cot besideher. As she feasted her gaze upon the eye-shut babe, Mrs. Bindle wasconscious of a feeling of disappointment. She wanted to babblebaby-talk, and gaze into those filmy blue eyes.
In spite of her aunt's protests, Millie made a cup of tea, explaining asshe did so that Charley was staying late at the office.
"It's a good cake, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle a few minutes later, as shedelicately cut another small square from the slice of home-made cakeupon the plate before her. In her eyes there was a look which was atribute from one good cook to another. "Who gave you the recipe?"
"It was all through Uncle Joe," said Millie. "He was always saying whata wonderful cook you are, Aunt Lizzie, and that if you didn't feedpussy he wouldn't purr," she laughed. "You know what funny things hesays," she added parenthetically--"so I took lessons. You see," sheadded quaintly, "I wanted Charley to be very happy."
"Pretty lot of purring there is in our house," was Mrs. Bindle's grimcomment, as she raised her cup-and-saucer from the table upon thefinger-tips of her left hand and, with little finger awkwardly crooked,lifted the cup with her disengaged hand and proceeded to sip the teawith Victorian refinement.
"How is Uncle Joe?" asked Millie. "I wish he had come."
"Oh! don't talk to me about your uncle," cried Mrs. Bindle peevishly."He's sitting at home smoking a filthy pipe and reading the horse-racingnews. I might be dirt under his feet for all the notice he takes of me."
The grievances of the day had been cumulative with Mrs. Bindle, and theburden was too heavy to be borne in silence. Beginning with a bad tomatoamong the pound she had bought that morning at Mr. Hearty's Fulham shop,her troubles had piled up one upon another to the point when she foundJoseph the Second asleep.
She had burned one of her best hem-stitched handkerchiefs whilst ironingit, the milk had "turned" on account of the thunder in the air and, tocrown the morning's tragedies, she had burned a saucepan owing to thedustman coming at an inconvenient moment.
"He's never been a proper husband to me," she sniffed ominously.
"Dear Aunt Lizzie," said Millie gently, as she leaned forward and placedher hand upon Mrs. Bindle's arm.
"He humiliates me before other people and--and sometimes I wish I wasdead, Millie, God forgive me." Her voice broke as she stifled a sob.
Millie's large, grave eyes were full of sympathy, mixed with a littlewonder. She could not understand how anyone could find "Uncle Joe" otherthan adorable.
"Ever since I married him he's been the same," continued Mrs. Bindle,the flood-gates of self-pity opening wide under the influence ofMillie's gentleness and sympathy. "He tries to make me look small beforeother people and--and I've always been a good wife to him."
Again she sniffed, and Millie squeezed her arm affectionately.
"He's just the same with Mr.--with your father," Mrs. Bindle correctedherself. "Why he stands it I don't know. If I was a man I'd hit him,that I would, and hard too," she added as if to allow of no doubt in herniece's mind as to the nature of the punishment she would administer."I'd show him; but Mr. Hearty's so good and patient and gentle." Mrs.Bindle produced a handkerchief, and proceeded to dab the corners of hereyes, although there was no indication of tears.
"But, Aunt Lizzie," protested Millie gently, "I'm sure he doesn't meanto make you--to humiliate you." She felt that loyalty to her belovedUncle Joe demanded that she should defend him. "You see, he--he loves ajoke, and he's very good to--to, oh, everybody! Charley just loves UncleJoe," she added, as if that settled the matter as far as she wereconcerned.
"Look how he goes on about the chapel," continued Mrs. Bindle, fearfullest her niece's sympathy should be snatched from her. "I wonder Goddoesn't strike him dead. I'm sure I----"
"Strike him dead!" cried Millie in horror. "Oh, Aunt Lizzie! you don'tmean that, you couldn't." She paused, seeming to bring the whole twelvemonths of her matronhood to the examination of the problem. "I know he'svery naughty sometimes," she added sagely, "but he loves you, AuntLizzie. He thinks that----"
"Love!" cried Mrs. Bindle with all the scorn of a woman who has nointention of being comforted. "He loves nothing but his food and his lowcompanions. He shames me before the neighbours, talking that familiarwith common men. When I'm out with him he shouts out to bus-conductors,or whistles at policemen, or winks at--at hussies in the street." Shepaused in the catalogue of Bindle's crimes, whilst Millie turned herhead to hide the smile she could not quite repress.
She herself had been with Bindle when he had called out to hisbus-conductor friends, and whistled under his breath when passing apoliceman, "If You Want to Know the Time Ask a Policeman"; but he hadnever winked at girls when he had been with her; of that she was sure.
"You see, Aunt Lizzie, he knows so many people, and they all like himand----"
"Only common people, like chauffeurs and workmen," was the retort. "WhenI'm out with him I sometimes want to sink thro
ugh the ground with shame.He lets them call him 'Joe,' and of course they don't respect me." Againshe sniffed ominously.
"I'll speak to him," said Millie with a wise little air that she hadassumed since her marriage.
"Speak to him!" cried Mrs. Bindle scornfully. "Might as well speak to abrick wall. I've spoken to him until I'm tired, and what does he do?Laughs at me and says I'm as----" she paused, as if finding difficultyin bringing herself to give Bindle's actual expression--"says I'm asholy as ointment, if you know what that means."
"But he doesn't mean to be unkind, Aunt Lizzie, I'm sure he doesn't,"protested Millie loyally. "He calls Boy--I mean Charley," she correctedherself with a little blush, "all sorts of names," and she laughed atsome recollection of her own. "Don't you think, Aunt Lizzie----" shepaused, conscious that she was approaching delicate ground. "Don't youthink that if you and Uncle Joe were both to try and--and----" shestopped, looking across at her aunt anxiously, her lower lip indrawn andher eyes gravely wide.
"Try and what?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, a hardness creeping into her voiceat the thought that anyone could see any mitigating circumstance inBindle's treatment of her.
"I thought that if perhaps--I mean," hesitated Millie, "that if you bothtried very hard to--to, not to hurt each other----" again she stopped.
"I'm sure I've never said anything to him that all the world might nothear," retorted Mrs. Bindle, with the unction of the righteous,"although he's always saying things to me that make me hot with shame,married woman though I am."
"But, Aunt Lizzie," persisted Millie, clasping Mrs. Bindle's arm withboth hands, and looking appealingly up into her face, "won't you try,just for my sake, pleeeeeease," she coaxed.
"I've tried until I'm tired of trying," was the ungracious retort. "Imoil and toil, inch and pinch, work day and night to mend his clothesand get his food ready, and this is what I get for it. He makes me alaughing-stock, talks about me behind my back. Oh, I know!" she addedhastily, as Millie made a sign of dissent. "He can't deceive me. Hewants to bring me down to his own level of wickedness, then he'll behappy; but he shan't," she cried, the Daughter of the Lord manifestingherself. "I'll kill myself first. He shall never have that pleasure, noone shall ever be able to say that I let him drag me down.
"I've always done my duty by him," she continued, returning to thethreadbare phrase that was ever present in her mind. "I've workedmorning, noon and night to try and keep him respectable, and see how hetreats me. I'm worse off than a servant, I tell him so and what does hedo?" she demanded. "Laughs at me," she cried shrilly, answering her ownquestion, "and humiliates me before the neighbours. Gets the children tocall after me, makes----"
"Oh, Aunt Lizzie! You mustn't say that," cried Millie in distress. "I'msure Uncle Joe would never do such a thing. He couldn't," she added withconviction.
"Well, they do it," retorted Mrs. Bindle, conscious of a feeling thatpossibly she had gone too far; "only yesterday they did it."
"What did they say?" enquired Millie curiously.
"They said," she paused as if hesitating to repeat what the youth ofFenton Street had called after her. Then, as if determined to convictBindle of all the sins possible, she continued, "They called after meall the way up Fenton Street----" again she paused.
"Yes, Aunt Lizzie."
"They called 'Mrs. Bindle turns a spindle.'"
Millie bent quickly forward that her involuntary smile might not bedetected.
"They never call out after him," Mrs. Bindle added, as if that in itselfwere conclusive proof of Bindle's guilt. "And now I must be going,Millie," and she rose and once more bent down to gaze where Joseph theSecond slept the sleep of an easy conscience and a good digestion.
"Bless his little heart," she murmured, for the moment forgetting herown troubles in the contemplation of the sleeping babe. "I hope hedoesn't grow up like his uncle," she added, her thoughts rushing backprecipitately to their customary channel.
"I'm going to have a talk with Uncle Joe," said Millie, as she followedher aunt along the passage, "and then----" she paused.
"You'd talk the hind leg off a donkey before you'd make any impressionon him," was the ungracious retort. "Good night, Millie, I'm glad you'regetting on with your cooking," and Mrs. Bindle passed out into the nightto the solitude of her own thoughts, populated exclusively by Bindle andhis shortcomings.
II
"I haven't told Charley, Uncle Joe, so be careful," whispered Millie, asBindle hung up his hat in the hall.
"'Aven't told 'im wot, Millie?"
"That--that----" she hesitated.
"I get you Steve," he cried, with a knowing wink, "you ain't told 'im'ow you're goin' to make yer Aunt Lizzie the silent wife of Fulham."
"Now, Uncle Joe," she admonished with pouting lips, "you promised. Youwill be careful, won't you?" She had spent two hours the previous nightcoaching Bindle in the part he was to play.
"Reg'lar dove I am to-night," he said cheerily. "I could lay an egg,only I don't know wot colour it ought to be."
Millie gazed at him for a few seconds in quizzical doubt, then, with ashrug of her pretty shoulders, and a pout that was very popular withCharley, she turned and led the way into the drawing-room.
Charley Dixon was doing his best to make conversation with hisaunt-in-law; but Mrs. Bindle's monosyllabic methods proved a seriousobstacle.
"Now we'll have supper," cried Millie, after Bindle had greeted Charleyand gazed a little doubtfully at Mrs. Bindle. He seemed on the point ofmaking some remark; but apparently thought better of it, instead heturned to admire an ornament on the mantelpiece. He had remembered justin time.
Millie had spread herself upon the supper. There was a small coldchicken that seemed desirous of shrinking within itself; a salad in aglass bowl, with a nickel-silver fork and spoon adorned with blue chinahandles; a plate of ham well garnished with parsley; a beef-steak andkidney pie, cold, also garnished with parsley; some pressed beef andtongue, of a thinness that advertised the professional hand which hadcut it.
On the sideboard was an infinity of tarts, blanc-mange, stewed fruit andcustard. With all the recklessness of a young housewife, Millie hadprepared for four what would have been ample for fourteen.
It was this fact that first attracted Mrs. Bindle's attention. Her keeneyes missed nothing. She examined the knives and spoons, identifyingthem as wedding presents. She lifted the silver pepper-castor, a trifle,light as air, examined the texture of the tablecloth and felt thenapkins with an appraising thumb and forefinger, and mentallydeprecated the lighting of the two pink candles, in silver candlestickswith yellow shades, in the centre of the table.
Millie fluttered about, acutely conscious of her responsibilities andflushed with anxiety.
"I hope--I hope," she began, addressing her aunt. "I--I hope you willlike it."
"You must have worked very hard, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, an unusualgentleness in her voice, whereat Millie flushed.
Bindle and Charley were soon at work upon the beef-steak and kidney pie,hot potatoes and beans. Bindle had nearly fallen at the first hurdle. Inthe heat of an argument with Charley as to what was the matter with theChelsea football team, he had indiscreetly put a large piece of potatointo his mouth without realising its temperature. A look of agonyoverspread his features. He was just in the act of making a preliminaryforward motion to return the potato from whence it came, when Charley,with a presence of mind that would have brought tears to Bindle's eyes,had they not already been there, indicated the glass of beer in front ofhim.
With a swoop Bindle seized it, raised it to his lips, and cooled theheated tuber. Pulling his red silk handkerchief from his breast-pocket,he mopped up the tears just as Mrs. Bindle turned her gaze upon him.
"Don't make me laugh, Charley," he cried with inspiration, "or I'llchoke," at which Charley laughed in a way that proved him entirelydevoid of histrionic talent.
"I'll do as much for you one o' these days, Charley," Bindle whispered,looking reproachfully at the remains of the potato t
hat had betrayedhim. "My Gawd! It was 'ot," he muttered under his breath. "Look out foryourself an' 'ave beer 'andy."
He turned suddenly to Mrs. Bindle. In his heart there was anuncharitable hope that she too might be caught in the toils from whichhe had just escaped; but Mrs. Bindle ate like a book on etiquette. Sheheld her knife and fork at the extreme end of the handles, her elbowspressed well into her sides, and literally toyed with her food.
After each mouthful, she raised her napkin to her lips, giving theimpression that it was in constant movement, either to or from her lips.
She took no table risks. She saw to it that every piece of food wascarefully attached to the fork before she raised it from the plate, andnever did fork carry a lighter load than hers. After each journey, bothknife and fork were laid on her plate, the napkin--Mrs. Bindle referredto it as a serviette--raised to her unsoiled lips, and she touchedneither knife nor fork again until her jaws had entirely ceased working.
Between her visits to the kitchen, Millie laboured desperately toinveigle her aunt into conversation; but although Mrs. Bindle possessedmuch religious and domestic currency, she had no verbal small change.
During the afternoon, Millie had exhausted domesticity and herselfalike--and there had been Joseph the Second. Mrs. Bindle did not read,they had no common friends, she avoided the pictures, and what she didsee in the newspapers she so disapproved of as to close that as apossible channel of conversation.
"Aunt Lizzie," cried Millie in desperation for something to say, "youaren't making a good supper."
"I'm doing very nicely, thank you, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, who in aquarter of an hour had managed to envelop about two square inches of hamand three shreds of lettuce.
"You don't like the ham, Aunt Lizzie," protested the hospitable Millie;"have some pie."
"It's very nice, thank you, Millie," was the prim reply. "I'm enjoyingit," and she proceeded to dissect a piece of lettuce to a size that evena "prunes and prisms" mouth might have taken without inconvenience.
"Charley," cried Millie presently. "I won't have you talking footballwith Uncle Joe. Talk to Aunt Lizzie."
A moment later she realized her mistake. Bindle returned to his plate,Charley looked at his aunt doubtfully, and conversation lay slain.
"Listen," cried Millie who, at the end of five minutes, thought she musteither say something, or scream. "That's Joey, run up and see, Charley,there's a dear"--she knew it was not Joey.
Charley rose dutifully, and once more silence descended upon the table.
"Aunt Lizzie, you _are_ making a poor meal," cried Millie, genuinelydistressed, as Mrs. Bindle placed her knife and fork at the "all clear"angle, although she had eaten less than half what her plate contained.
"I've done very nicely, thank you, Millie, and I've enjoyed it."
Millie sighed. Her eyes wandered from the heavily-laden table to thesideboard, and she groaned in spirit. In spite of what Bindle andCharley had done, and were doing, there seemed such a lot that requiredto be eaten, and she wondered whether Charley would very much mindhaving cold meat, blanc-mange and jam tarts for the rest of the week.
"It wasn't him, Millie," said Charley, re-entering the room, andreturning to his plate with the air of one determined to make up for thetime he had lost in parental solicitude, whilst Bindle pushed his ownplate from him as a sign that, so far as the first round was concerned,he had nothing more to say.
"You're very quiet to-night, Uncle Joe," said Millie, the soul ofhospitality within her already weeping bitter tears.
"Me?" cried Bindle, starting and looking about him. "I ain't quiet,Millie," and then he relapsed once more into silence.
Charley did not seem to notice anything unusual. In his gentle,good-natured way he hoped that Millie would not again ask him to talk toAunt Lizzie.
Mrs. Bindle partook, no other word adequately describes the action, ofan open jam tart with the aid of a spoon and fork, from time to timesipping daintily from her glass of lemonade; but she refused all else.She had made an excellent meal, she repeatedly assured Millie, and hadenjoyed it.
Millie found comfort in plying Bindle with dainties. He had received noorders to curtail his appetite, so he had decided in his own idiom to"let 'em all come"--and they came, tarts and turnovers, fruit-salad andblanc-mange, custard and jelly. By the time the cheese and biscuits hadarrived, he was forced to lean back in his chair and confess himselfvanquished.
"Not if you was to pay me," he said, as he shook a regretful head.
After the meal, they returned to the drawing-room. Millie showed Mrs.Bindle an album of coloured postcards they had collected during theirhoneymoon, whilst Charley wandered about like a restless spirit, missinghis after-dinner pipe.
"Ain't we goin' to smoke?" Bindle had whispered hoarsely, as theyentered the drawing-room; but Charley shook a sad and resigned head.
"She mightn't like it," he whispered back, so Bindle seated himself inthe corner of a plush couch, and wondered how long it would be beforeMrs. Bindle made a move to go home.
Millie was trying her utmost to make the postcards last as long aspossible. Charley had paused beside her in his restless strolling aboutthe room, and proceeded to recall unimportant happenings at the placespictured.
At length the photographs were exhausted, and both Millie and Charleybegan to wonder what was to take their place, when Mrs. Bindle rose,announcing that she must be going. Millie pressed her to stay, andstrove to stifle the thanksgiving in her heart, whilst Charley began tocount the minutes before he would be able to "light up."
The business of parting, however, occupied time, and it was fully twentyminutes later that Bindle and Mrs. Bindle, accompanied by Charley andMillie, passed down the narrow little passage towards the hall door.
Another five minutes were occupied in remarks upon the garden and howthey had enjoyed themselves--and then the final goodnights were uttered.
As his niece kissed him, Bindle muttered, "I been all right, ain't I,Millikins?" and she squeezed his arm reassuringly, at which he sighedhis relief. The tortures he had suffered that evening were as nothing,provided Millie were happy.
As the hall door closed, Charley struck a match and lighted his pipe.Returning to the drawing-room, he dropped into the easiest of the uneasychairs.
"What's the matter with Uncle Joe to-night, Millie?" he enquired, andfor answer Millie threw herself upon him, wound her arms round his neckand sobbed.
* * * * *
"Been a pleasant evenin', Lizzie," said Bindle conversationally, as theywalked towards the nearest tram-stop.
Mrs. Bindle sniffed.
"Nice young chap, Charley," he remarked a moment later. He wasdetermined to redeem his promise to Millie.
"What was the matter with you to-night?" she demanded aggressively.
"Matter with me?" he enquired in surprise. "There ain't nothink thematter with me, Lizzie, I enjoyed myself fine."
"Yes, sitting all the evening as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."
"But----" began Bindle.
"Oh, I know you," she interrupted. "You wanted Millie and Charley tothink it's all my fault and that you're a saint. They should see you inyour own home," she added.
"But I ain't said nothink," he protested.
"You aren't like that at home," she continued. "There you do nothing butblaspheme and talk lewd talk and sneer at Mr. Hearty. Oh! I can seethrough you," she added, "and you needn't think you deceived Millie, orCharley. They're not the fools you think them."
Bindle groaned in spirit. He had suffered acutely that evening, mentallyhaving had to censor every sentence before uttering it.
"Then look at the way you behaved. Eating like a gormand. You made methoroughly ashamed of you. I could see Millie watching----"
"But she was watchin' to see I 'ad enough to eat," he protested.
"Don't tell me. Any decently refined girl would be disgusted at the wayyou behave. Eating jam tarts with your fingers."
"But wot
should I eat 'em with?"
Before she had time to reply, the tram drew up and, following her usualcustom, Mrs. Bindle made a dart for it, elbowing people right and left.She could always be trusted to make sufficient enemies in entering avehicle to last most people for a lifetime.
"But wot should I eat 'em with?" enquired Bindle again when they wereseated.
"Sssh!" she hissed, conscious that a number of people were looking ather, including several who had made acquaintance with the sharpness ofher elbows.
"But if you ain't to eat jam tarts with yer fingers, 'ow are you goin'to get 'em into yer mouth?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper, which waseasily heard by the greater part of the occupants of the tram. "Theydon't jump," he added.
A ripple of smiles broke out on the faces of most of theirfellow-passengers.
"_Will_ you be quiet?" hissed Mrs. Bindle.
"Mind you don't grow up like that, kid," whispered an amorous youth to afull-busted young woman, whose hand he was grasping with interlacedfingers.
Mrs. Bindle heard the remark and drew in her lips still further.
"Been gettin' yer face sticky, mate?" enquired a little man sitting nextto Bindle, in a voice of sympathy.
Bindle turned and gave him a wink.
No sooner had they alighted from the tram at The King's Head, than Mrs.Bindle's restraint vanished. All the way to Fenton Street she reviledBindle for humiliating her before other people. She gave full rein tothe anger that had been simmering within her all the evening. Millieshould be told of his conduct. Charley should learn to hate him, andLittle Joey to execrate the very mention of his name.
"But you shouldn't go a-jabbin' yer elbows in people's----" Bindlepaused for a word sufficiently delicate for Mrs. Bindle's ears andwhich, at the same time, would leave no doubt as to the actual portionof the anatomy to which he referred.
"I'll jab my elbows into you, if you're not careful," was theuncompromising response. "I'm referring to the tarts."
And Bindle made a bolt for it.
"Now this all comes through tryin' to sit on a safety-valve," hemuttered. "Mrs. B. 'as got to blow-orf some'ow, or she'd bust."
Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles Page 12