Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles

by Herbert George Jenkins

  CHAPTER XIII

  MRS. BINDLE'S DISCOVERY

  I

  On Wednesday evenings, Mrs. Bindle went to chapel to engage in theweekly temperance service. As temperance meetings always engendered inMrs. Bindle the missionary spirit, Bindle selected Wednesday for what hecalled his "night out."

  If he got home early, it was to encounter Mrs. Bindle's prophetic viewsas to the hereafter of those who spent their leisure in gin-palaces.

  At first Mrs. Bindle had shown her resentment by waiting up until Bindlereturned; but as he made that return later each Wednesday, she had atlast capitulated, and it became no longer necessary for him to walk thestreets until two o'clock in the morning, in order to slip upstairsunchallenged as to where he expected to go when he died.

  One Wednesday night, as he was on his way home, whistling "Bubbles" atthe stretch of his powers, he observed the figure of a girl standingunder a lamp-post, her head bent, her shoulders moving convulsively.

  "'Ullo--'ullo!" he cried. "Wot's the matter now?"

  At Bindle's words she gave him a fleeting glance, then, turning oncemore to the business on hand, sobbed the louder.

  "Wot's wrong, my dear?" Bindle enquired, regarding her with a puzzledexpression. "Oo's been 'urting you?"

  "I'm--I'm afraid," she sobbed.

  "Afraid! There ain't nothink to be afraid of when Joe Bindle's about.Wot you afraid of?"

  "I'm--I'm afraid to go home," sobbed the girl.

  "Afraid to go 'ome," repeated Bindle. "Why?"

  "M-m-m-m-mother."

  "Wot's up with 'er? She ill?"

  "She--she'll kill me."

  "Ferocious ole bird," he muttered. Then to the girl, "'Ere, you didn'tought to be out at this time o' night, a young gal like you. Why, it'sgettin' on for twelve. Wot's wrong with Ma?"

  "She'll kill me. I darsen't go home." She looked up at Bindle, apathetic figure, with twitching mouth and frightened eyes. Then,controlling her sobs, she told her story.

  She had been to Richmond with a girl friend, and some boys had takenthem for a run on their motorcycles. One of the cycles had developedengine-trouble and, instead of being home by ten, it was half-pasteleven before she got to Putney Bridge Station.

  "I darsen't go home," she wailed, as she finished her story. "Mother'llkill me. She said she would last time. I know she will," and again shebegan to cry, this time without any effort to shield her tear-stainedface. Fear had rendered her regardless of appearances.

  "'Ere, I'll take you 'ome," cried Bindle, with the air of a man who hasarrived at a mighty decision. "If Mrs. B. gets to 'ear of it, there'llbe an 'ell of a row though," he muttered.

  The girl appeared undecided.

  "You won't let her hurt me?" she asked, with the appealing look of afrightened child.

  "Well, I can't start scrappin' with your ma, my dear," he saiduncertainly; "but I'll do my best. My missis is a bit of a scrapper, yousee, an' I've learned 'ow to 'andle 'em. Of course, if she liked 'ymnsan' salmon, it'd be sort of easier," he mused, "not that there's muchchance of gettin' a tin' o' salmon at this time o' night."

  The girl, unaware of his habit of trading on Mrs. Bindle's fondness fortinned salmon and hymn tunes, looked at him with widened eyes.

  "No," he continued, "it's got to be tack this time. 'Ere, come along,young un, we can't stay 'ere all night. Where jer live?"

  She indicated with a nod the end of the street in which they stood.

  "Well, 'ere goes," he cried, starting off, the girl following. As theyproceeded, her steps became more and more reluctant, until at last shestopped dead.

  "'Wot's up now?" he enquired, looking over his shoulder.

  "I darsen't go in," she said tremulously. "I d-d-darsen't."

  "'Ere, come along," cried Bindle persuasively. "Your ma can't eat you.Which 'ouse is it?"

  "That one." She nodded in the direction of a gate opposite a lamp-post,fear and misery in her eyes.

  "Come along, my dear. I won't let 'er 'urt you," and, taking her gentlyby the arm, he led her towards the gate. Here, however, the girl stoppedonce more and clung convulsively to the railings, half-dead with fright.

  Opening the gate, Bindle walked up the short tiled path and, reachingup, grasped the knocker. As he did so, the door opened with suchsuddenness that he lurched forward, almost into the arms of a stoutwoman with a fiery face and angry eyes.

  From Bindle her gaze travelled to the shrinking figure clinging to therailings.

  "You old villain!" she cried, in a voice hoarse with passion, making adive at Bindle, who, dodging nimbly, took cover behind a moth-eatenevergreen in the centre of the diminutive front garden.

  "You just let me catch you, keeping my gal out like this, and you oldenough to be her father, too. As for you, my lady, you just wait till Iget you indoors. I'll show you, coming home at this time o' night."

  She made another dive at Bindle; but her bulk was against her, and hefound no difficulty in evading the attack.

  "What d'you mean by it?" she demanded, as she glared at him across thetop of the evergreen, "and 'er not seventeen yet. For two pins I'd haveyou taken up."

  "'Ere, old 'ard, missis," cried Bindle, keeping a wary eye upon hisantagonist. "I ain't wot you think. I'm a dove, that's wot I am, an''ere are you a-playin' chase-me-Charlie round this 'ere----"

  "Wait till I get you," she shouted, drowning Bindle's protest. "I'llgive you dove, keeping my gal out all hours. You just wait. I'll showyou, or my name ain't Annie Brunger."

  She made another dive at him; but, by a swift movement, he once moreplaced the diminutive evergreen between them.

  "Mother!--mother!" The girl rushed forward and clung convulsively to hermother's arm. "Mother, don't!"

  "You wait, my lady," cried Mrs. Brunger, shaking off her daughter'shand. "I'll settle with you when I've finished with him, the beauty.I'll show him!"

  The front door of the house on the right slowly opened, and acurl-papered head peeped out. Two doors away on the other side a windowwas raised, and a man's bald head appeared. The hounds of scandalscented blood.

  "Mother!" The girl shook her mother's arm desperately. "Mother, don't!This gentleman came home with me because I was afraid."

  "What's that?" Mrs. Brunger turned to her daughter, who stood withpleading eyes clutching her arm, her own fears momentarily forgotten.

  "He saw me crying and said he'd come home with me because----Oh, mother,don't!--don't!"

  Two windows on the opposite side of the way were noisily pushed up, andheads appeared.

  "'Ere, look 'ere, missis," cried Bindle, seizing his opportunity. "It'sno use a-chasin' me round this 'ere gooseberry bush. I told you I ain'tno lion. I come to smooth things over. A sort o' dove, you know."

  "Mother!--mother!" Again the girl clutched her mother's arm, shaking itin her excitement. "I was afraid to come home, honestly I was, and--andhe saw me crying and--and said----" Sobs choked her further utterance.

  "Come inside, the pair of you." Mrs. Brunger had at length becomeconscious of the interest of her neighbours. "Some folks never can mindtheir own business," she added, as a thrust at the inquisitive. Turningher back on the delinquent pair, she marched in at the door, along theshort passage to the kitchen at the farther end, where the gas wasburning.

  Bindle followed her confidently, and stood, cap in hand, by thekitchen-table, looking about him with interest. The girl, however,remained flattened against the side of the passage, as if anxious toefface herself.

  "Elsie, if you don't come in, I'll fetch you," announced the motherthreateningly.

  Elsie slid along the wall and round the door-post, making for the cornerof the room farthest from her mother. There she stood with terrifiedeyes fixed upon her parent.

  "Now, then, what have you two got to say for yourselves?" Mrs. Brungerlooked from Bindle to her daughter, with the air of one who is quiteprepared to assume the responsibilities of Providence.

  "Well, it was like this 'ere," said Bindle easily. "I see 'er," hejerked his
thumb in the direction of the girl, "cryin' under a lamp-postdown the street, so I asks 'er wot's up."

  Bindle paused, and Mrs. Brunger turned to her daughter with a look ofinterrogation.

  "I--I----" began the girl, then she, too, stopped abruptly.

  "You've been with that hussy Mabel Warnes again." There was accusationand conviction in Mrs. Brunger's tone. "Don't you deny it," shecontinued, although the girl made no sign of doing so. "I warned youwhat I'd do to you if you went out with that fast little baggage again,and I'll do it, so help me God, I will." Her voice was rising angrily.

  "'Ere, look 'ere, missis----" began Bindle.

  "My name's Brunger--Mrs. Brunger," she added, to prevent any possibilityof misconception. "I thought I told you once."

  "You did," said Bindle cheerfully. "Now, look 'ere," he continuedpersuasively, "we're only young once."

  Mrs. Brunger snorted disdainfully; and the look she gave her daughtercaused the girl to shrink closer to the wall.

  "Rare cove I was for gettin' 'ome late," remarked Bindle reminiscently.

  "More shame you," was the uncompromising retort.

  "Shouldn't wonder if you was a bit late now an' again when you was agal," he continued, looking up at Mrs. Brunger with criticalappreciation--"or else the chaps didn't know wot was wot," he added.

  "Two blacks don't make a white," was Mrs. Brunger's obscure comment.

  "Yes; but a gal can't 'elp bein' pretty," continued Bindle, followingthe line of his reasoning. "Now, if you'd been like some ma's, no onewouldn't 'ave wanted to keep 'er out."

  "Who are you getting at?" demanded Mrs. Brunger; but there was nodispleasure in her voice.

  "It's only the pretty ones wot gets kept out late," continued Bindleimperturbably, his confidence rising at the signs of a weakeningdefence. "Now, with a ma like you," he paused eloquently, "it was boundto 'appen. You didn't ought to be too 'ard on the gal, although, mindyou," he said, turning to the culprit, "she didn't ought to go out withgals against her ma's wishes, an' she's goin' to be a good gal infuture--ain't that so, my dear?"

  The girl nodded her head vigorously.

  "There, you see," continued Bindle, turning once more to Mrs. Brunger,whose face was showing marked signs of relaxation. "Now, if I was ayoung chap again," he continued, looking from mother to daughter, "well,anythink might 'appen."

  "Go on with you, do." Mrs. Brunger's good humour was returning.

  "Well, I suppose I must," said Bindle, with a grin. "It's about time Iwas 'opping it."

  His announcement seemed to arouse the girl. Hitherto she had stood asilent witness, puzzled at the strange turn events were taking; but nowshe realised that her protector was about to leave her to the enemy. Shestarted forward, and clutched Bindle by the arm.

  "Don't go!--oh, don't go! I----" She stopped suddenly, and looked acrossat her mother.

  "You ain't a-goin' to be too 'ard on 'er?" said Bindle, interpreting thelook.

  Mrs. Brunger looked irresolute. Her anger found its source in themother-instinct of protection rather than in bad temper. Bindle wasquick to take advantage of her indecision. With inspiration he turned tothe girl.

  "Now, you mustn't worry yer ma, my dear. She's got quite enough to seeto without bein' bothered by a pretty little 'ead like yours. Now, ifshe forgives you, will you promise 'er not to be late again, an' not togo with that gal wot she don't like?"

  "Oh, yes, yes! I won't, mums, honestly." She looked appealingly at hermother, and saw something in her face that was reassuring, for a momentlater she was clinging almost fiercely to her mother's arm.

  "You must come in one Saturday evening and see my husband," said Mrs.Brunger a few minutes later, as Bindle fumbled with the latch of thehall door. "He's on _The Daily Age_, and is only home a-Saturdaynights."

  "Oh, do, _please_!" cried the girl, smiles having chased all but themarks of tears from her face, and Bindle promised that he would.

  "Now, if Mrs. B. was to 'ear of these little goin's on," he muttered, ashe walked towards Fenton Street, "there'd be an 'ell of a row. Mrs. B.'sa good woman an', bein' a good woman, she's bound to think the worst,"and he swung open the gate that led to his "Little Bit of 'Eaven."

  II

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Stitchley."

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Bindle. I 'ope I 'aven't come at a inconvenienttime."

  "No, please come in," said Mrs. Bindle, with almost geniality, as shestood aside to admit her caller, then, closing the front-door behindher, she opened that leading to the parlour.

  "Will you just wait here a minute, Mrs. Stitchley, and I'll pull up theblind?" she said.

  Mrs. Stitchley smirked and smiled, whilst Mrs. Bindle made her way, withamazing dexterity, through the maze of things with which the room wascrammed, in the direction of the window.

  A moment later, she pulled up the dark-green blind, which was alwayskept drawn so that the carpet might not fade, and the sunlight shudderedinto the room. It revealed a grievous medley of antimacassared chairs,stools, photograph-frames, pictures and ornaments, all of which werevery dear to Mrs. Bindle's heart.

  "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Stitchley?" enquired Mrs. Bindle primly. Mrs.Stitchley was inveterate in her attendance at the Alton Road Chapel;Bindle had once referred to her as "a chapel 'og."

  "Thank you, my dear, thank you," said Mrs. Stitchley, whose mannerexuded friendliness.

  She looked about her dubiously, and it was Mrs. Bindle who settledmatters by indicating a chair of stamped-plush, the seat of which rosehard and high in the centre. Over the back was an ecru antimacassar,tied with a pale-blue ribbon. After a moment's hesitation, Mrs.Stitchley entrusted it with her person.

  "It's a long time since I see you, Mrs. Bindle." They had met threeevenings previously at chapel.

  Mrs. Bindle smiled feebly. She always suspected Mrs. Stitchley ofsurreptitious drinking, in spite of the fact that she belonged to thechapel Temperance Society. Mrs. Stitchley's red nose, coupled with thepassion she possessed for chewing cloves, had made her fellow-worshippersuspicious.

  "Wot a nice room," Mrs. Stitchley looked about her appreciatively, "sogenteel, and 'ow refined."

  Mrs. Bindle smirked.

  "I was sayin' to Stitchley only yesterday mornin' at breakfast--he was'avin' sausages, 'e bein' so fond of 'em--'Mrs. Bindle 'as taste,' Isays, '_and_ refinement.'"

  Mrs. Bindle, who had seated herself opposite her visitor, drew in herchin and folded her hands before her, with the air of one who isreceiving only what she knows to be her due.

  There was a slight pause.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Stitchley, with a sigh, "I was always one forrefinement _and_ respectability."

  Mrs. Bindle said nothing. She was wondering why Mrs. Stitchley hadcalled. Although she would not have put it into words, or even allow itto find form in her thoughts, she knew Mrs. Stitchley to be a woman towhom gossip was the breath of life.

  "Now you're wonderin' why I've come, my dear," continued Mrs. Stitchley,who always grew more friendly as her calls lengthened, "but it's adooty. I says to Stitchley this mornin', 'There's that poor, dear Mrs.Bindle a-livin' in innocence of the way in which she's bein' vilated.'"Mrs. Stitchley was sometimes a little loose in the way she constructedher sentences and the words she selected.

  Mrs. Bindle's lips began to assume a hard line.

  "I don't understand, Mrs. Stitchley," she said.

  "Jest wot I says to Stitchley, 'She don't know, the poor lamb,' I says,''ow she's bein' deceived, 'ow she's----'" Mrs. Stitchley paused, notfrom any sense of the dramatic; but because of a violent hiccough thathad assailed her.

  "Excuse me, mum--Mrs. Bindle," she corrected herself; "but I always wasa one for 'iccups, an' when it ain't 'iccups it's spasms. Stitchley wassayin' to me only yesterday, no it wasn't, it was the day before,that----"

  "Won't you tell me what you were going to?" said Mrs. Bindle. She knewof old how rambling were Mrs. Stitchley's methods of narration.

  "To be sure, to be sure," and she nodded until the
jet ornament in herblack bonnet seemed to have become palsied. "Well, my dear, it's likethis. As I was sayin' to Stitchley this mornin', 'I can't see poor Mrs.Bindle deceived by that monster.' I see through 'im that evenin',a-turnin' your 'appy party into----" she paused for a simile--"into wot'e turned it into," she added with inspiration.

  "Oh! the wickedness of this world, Mrs. Bindle. Oh! the sin and error."She cast up her bleary, watery blue eyes, and gazed at the yellow paperflycatcher, and once more the jet ornament began to shiver.

  "Please tell me what it is, Mrs. Stitchley," said Mrs. Bindle, consciousof a sense of impending disaster.

  "The wicked man, the cruel, heartless creature; but they're all thesame, as I tell Stitchley, and him with a wife like you, Mrs. Bindle, tocarry on with a young Jezebel like that, to----"

  "Carry on with a young Jezebel!"

  Mrs. Bindle's whole manner had changed. Her uprightness seemed to havebecome emphasised, and the grim look about her mouth had hardened intoone of menace. Her eyes, hard as two pieces of steel, seemed to piercethrough her visitor's brain. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

  Instinctively Mrs. Stitchley recoiled.

  "As I says to Stitchley----" she began, when Mrs. Bindle broke in.

  "Never mind Mr. Stitchley," she snapped. "Tell me what you mean."

  Mrs. Stitchley looked hurt. Things were not going exactly as she hadplanned. In the retailing of scandal, she was an artist, and sheconstructed her periods with a view to their dramatic effect upon herlistener.

  "Yes," she continued reminiscently, "'e's been a good 'usbindt 'asStitchley. Never no gallivanting with other females. 'E's always said:'Matilda, my dear, there won't never be another woman for me.' His verywords, Mrs. Bindle, I assure _you_," and Mrs. Stitchley preened herselflike a moth-eaten peacock.

  "You were saying----" began Mrs. Bindle.

  "To be sure, to be sure," said Mrs. Stitchley; "but we all 'ave ourcrosses to bear. The Lord will give you strength, Mrs. Bindle, just asHe gave me strength when Stitchley lorst 'is leg. 'The Lord giveth andthe Lord taketh away,'" she added enigmatically.

  "Mrs. Stitchley," said Mrs. Bindle, rising with an air of decision, "Iinsist on your telling me what you mean."

  "Ah! my dear," said Mrs. Stitchley, with an emotion in her voice thatshe usually kept for funerals, "I knew 'ow it would be. I says toStitchley, 'Stitchley,' I says, 'that poor, dear woman will suffer. Shewas made for sufferin'. She's one of them gentle, tender lambs, that'strodden underfoot by the serpent's tooth of man's lust; but she willbear 'er cross.' Them was my very words, Mrs. Bindle," she added,indifferent to the mixture of metaphor.

  Mrs. Bindle looked at her visitor helplessly. Her face was very white;but she realised Mrs. Stitchley's loquacity was undammable.

  "A-takin' 'ome a young gal at two o'clock in the mornin', and then bein'asked in by 'er mother--and 'er father away at 'is work every night--and'er not mor'n seventeen, and all the neighbours with their 'eads out ofthe windows, and 'er a-screechin' and askin' of 'er mother not to 'it'er, and 'er sayin' 'Wait 'till I get you, my gal,' and callin' 'im anole villain. 'E ought to be took up. I says to Stitchley, 'Stitchley,' Isays, 'that man ought to be took up, an' it's only because of LordGeorge that 'e ain't.'"

  "What do you mean?" Mrs. Bindle made an effort to control herself. "Whowas it that took some one home at two o'clock in the morning?"

  "You poor lamb," croaked Mrs. Stitchley, gazing up at Mrs. Bindle, whoseunlamblike qualities were never more marked than at that moment. "Youpoor lamb. You're being deceived, Mrs. Bindle, cruelly and wickedlyvilated. Your 'usbindt's carrying on with a young gal wot might 'avebeen 'is daughter. Oh! the wickedness of this world, the----"

  "I don't believe it."

  Mrs. Stitchley started back. The words seemed almost to hit her in theface. She blinked her eyes uncertainly, as she looked at Mrs. Bindle,the embodiment of an outraged wife and a vengeful fury.

  "I'm afraid I must be going, my dear," said Mrs. Stitchley; "but I feltI ought to tell you."

  "Not until you've told me everything," said Mrs. Bindle, with decision,as she moved towards the door, "and you don't leave this room untilyou've explained what you mean."

  Mrs. Stitchley turned round in her chair as Mrs. Bindle passed acrossthe room, surprise and fear in her eyes.

  "Lord a mercy me!" she cried. "Don't ee take on like that, Mrs. Bindle.'E ain't worth it."

  Then Mrs. Bindle proceeded to make it abundantly clear to Mrs. Stitchleythat she required the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,without unnecessary circumlocution, verbiage, or obscuring metaphor.

  At the end of five minutes she had reduced her visitor to a state oftearful compliance.

  At first her periods halted; but she soon got into her stride and swungalong with obvious enjoyment.

  "My sister-in-law, not as she is my sister-in-law regler, Stitchley'sfather 'avin' married twice, 'is second bein' a widow with five of 'erown, an' 'er not twenty-nine at the time, reckless, I calls it. As I wassayin', Mrs. Coggles, 'er name's enough to give you a pain, an' thestate of 'er 'ome, my dear----" Mrs. Stitchley raised her eyes to theceiling as if words failed her.

  "Well," she continued after a momentary pause, during which Mrs. Bindlelooked at her without moving a muscle, "as I was sayin', Mrs.Coggles"--she shuddered slightly as she pronounced the name--"she livesin Arloes Road, No. 9, pink tie-ups to 'er curtains she 'as, an' thatflashy in 'er dress. Well, well!" she concluded, as if Christiancharity had come to her aid.

  "She told me all about it. She was jest a-goin' to bed, bein' late onaccount of 'Ector, that's 'er seventh, ten months old an' still at thebreast, disgustin' I calls it, 'avin' wot she thought was convulsions,an' 'earin' the row an' 'ubbub, she goes to the door an' seeseverythink, an' that's the gospel truth, Mrs. Bindle, if I was to bestruck down like Sulphira."

  She then proceeded to give a highly elaborated and ornate account ofBindle's adventure of some six weeks previously. She accompanied herstory with a wealth of detail, most of which was inaccurate, coupledwith the assurance that the Lord and Mrs. Stitchley would undoubtedly doall in their power to help Mrs. Bindle in her hour of trial.

  Finally, Mrs. Stitchley found herself walking down the little tiled paththat led to the Bindles' outer gate, in her heart a sense of greatinjustice.

  "Never so much as bite or sup," she mumbled, as she turned out of thegate, taking care to leave it open, "and me a-tellin' 'er all wot I told'er. I've come across meanness in my time; but I never been refused acup-o'-tea, an' me fatiguing myself something cruel to go an' tell 'er.I don't wonder he took up with that bit of a gal."

  That night she confided in her husband. "Stitchley," she said, "thereain't never smoke without fire, you mark my words," and Stitchley,glancing up from his newspaper, enquired what the 'ell she was gassingabout; but she made no comment beyond emphasising, once more, that hewas to mark her words.

  That afternoon, Mrs. Bindle worked with a vigour unusual even in her.She attacked the kitchen fire, hurled into the sink a flat-iron that hadthe temerity to get too hot, scrubbed boards that required no scrubbing,washed linoleum that was spotless, blackleaded where to blacklead waslike painting the lily. In short, she seemed determined to exhaust herenergies and her anger upon the helpless and inanimate things about her.

  From time to time there burst from her closed lips a sound as of one whohas difficulty in holding back her pent-up feelings.

  At length, having cleaned everything that was cleanable, she prepared acup-of-tea, which she drank standing. Then, removing her apron andtaking her bonnet from the dresser-drawer, she placed it upon her headand adjusted the strings beneath her chin.

  Without waiting for any other garment, she left the house and madedirect for Arloes Road.

  Twice she walked its length, subjecting to a careful scrutiny the houseoccupied by the Brungers, noting the windows with great care, andfinding in them little to criticise. Then she returned to Fenton Street.

  The fact of having viewe
d the actual scene of Bindle's perfidy seemed tocorroborate Mrs. Stitchley's story. Before the storm was to be permittedto burst, however, Mrs. Bindle intended to make assurance doubly sureby, as she regarded it in her own mind, "catching him at it."

  That night, she selected for her evening reading the chapter in theBible which tells of the plagues of Egypt. Temporarily she saw herselfin the roll of an outraged Providence, whilst for the part of Pharaohshe had cast Bindle, who, unaware of his impending doom, was explainingto Ginger at The Yellow Ostrich that a bigamist ought to be let offbecause "'e must be mad to 'ave done it."

  III

  Mrs. Bindle awaited the coming of Saturday evening with a grimness thatcaused Bindle more than once to regard her curiously. "There's somethinkon the 'andle," he muttered prophetically; but as Mrs. Bindle made nosign and, furthermore, as she set before him his favourite dishes, heallowed speculation to become absorbed in appetite and enjoyment.

  It was characteristic of Mrs. Bindle that, Bindle being more thanusually under a cloud, she should take extra care in the preparation ofhis meals. It was her way of emphasising the difference between them; hethe erring husband, she the perfect wife.

  "I shan't be in to supper to-night, Lizzie," Bindle announced casuallyon the evening of what Mrs. Bindle had already decided was to be her dayof wrath. He picked up his bowler-hat preparatory to making one of hislightning exits.

  "Where are you going?" she demanded, hoping to trap him in a lie.

  "When you gets yerself up dossy an' says you're goin' to chapel," heremarked, edging towards the door, "I says nothink at all, bein' atrustin' 'usband; so when I gets myself up ditto an' says I ain't goin'to chapel, you didn't ought to say nothink either, Mrs. B. Wot's saucefor the goose is----"

  "You're a bad, black-hearted man, Bindle, and you know it."

  The intensity of feeling with which the words were uttered surprisedhim.

  "Don't you think you can throw dust----" She stopped suddenly, thenconcluded, "You'd better be careful."

  "I am, Mrs. B.," he replied cheerily, "careful _as_ careful."

  Bindle had fallen into a habit of "dropping in" upon the Brungers onSaturday evenings, and for this purpose he had what he described as "awash an' brush-up." This resolved itself into an entire change ofraiment, as well as the customary "rinse" at the kitchen sink. This initself confirmed Mrs. Stitchley's story.

  "Well, s'long," said Bindle, as he opened the kitchen door. "Keep the'ome fires burnin'," and with that he was gone.

  Bindle had learned from past experience that the more dramatic his exitthe less likelihood there was of Mrs. Bindle scoring the finaldialectical point.

  This evening, however, she had other and weightier matters forthought--and action. No sooner had the kitchen door closed than, movingswiftly across to the dresser, she pulled open a drawer, and drew outher dark brown mackintosh and bonnet. With swift, deft movements shedrew on the one, and tied the strings of the other beneath her chin.Then, without waiting to look in the mirror over the mantelpiece, shepassed into the passage and out of the hall door.

  She was just in time to see Bindle disappear round the corner. Without amoment's hesitation she followed.

  Unconscious that Mrs. Bindle, like Nemesis, was dogging his steps,Bindle continued his way until finally he turned into Arloes Road. Onreaching the second lamp-post he gave vent to a peculiarly shrillwhistle. As he opened the gate that led to a neat little house, thefront door opened, and a young girl ran down the path and clasped hisarm. It was obvious that she had been listening for the signal. A momentlater they entered the house together.

  For a few seconds Mrs. Bindle stood at the end of the road, staring atthe door that had closed behind them. Her face was white and set, and agrey line of grimness marked the spot where her lips had disappeared.She had noted that the girl was pretty, with fair hair that clung abouther head in wanton little tendrils and, furthermore, that it was boundwith a broad band of light green ribbon.

  "The villain!" she muttered between set teeth, as she turned andproceeded to retrace her steps. "I'll show him."

  Arrived back at Fenton Street, she went straight upstairs and proceededto make an elaborate toilet. A little more than an hour later the frontdoor once more closed behind her, and Mrs. Bindle proceeded upon herway, buttoning her painfully tight gloves, conscious that sartoriallyshe was a triumph of completeness.

  IV

  "An' 'as 'er Nibs been a good gal all the week?" Bindle paused in theact of raising a glass of ale to his lips.

  "I have, mums, haven't I?" Elsie Brunger broke in, without giving hermother a chance to reply.

  Mrs. Brunger nodded. The question had caught her at a moment when hermouth was overfull of fried plaice and potatoes.

  "That's the ticket," said Bindle approvingly. "No bein' out late an'gettin' 'ome with the milk, or"--he paused impressively--"I gets anothergal, see?"

  By this time Mrs. Brunger had reduced the plaice and potatoes toconversational proportions.

  "She's been helping me a lot in the house, too," she said from above awhite silk blouse that seemed determined to show how much there reallywas of Mrs. Brunger.

  Elsie looked triumphantly across the supper-table at Bindle.

  "That's a good gal," said Bindle approvingly.

  "You've done her a lot of good, Mr. Bindle," said Mrs. Brunger, "and meand George are grateful, ain't we, George?"

  Mr. Brunger, a heavy-faced man with sad, lustreless eyes and a sallowskin, nodded. He was a man to whom speech came with difficulty, but onthis occasion his utterance was constricted by a fish-bone lodgedsomewhere in the neighbourhood of the root of his tongue.

  "Wonderful 'ow all the gals take to me," remarked Bindle. "Chase meround gooseberry bushes, they do; anythink to get me."

  "You go on with you, do," laughed Mrs. Brunger. "How was I to know?"

  "I said I was a dove. You 'eard me, didn't you, Fluffy?" he demanded,turning to Elsie.

  "I won't be called Fluffy," she cried, in mock indignation. "You know Idon't like it."

  "The man who goes about doin' wot a woman says she likes ain't goin' toget much jam," remarked Bindle oracularly.

  "Now, let's get cleared away, mother," remarked Mr. Brunger, speakingfor the first time.

  "Oh, dad! don't you love your dominoes?" cried Elsie, jumping up andgiving him a hug. "All right, mums and I will soon sound the 'Allclear.' Come along, uncle, you butle." This to Bindle.

  Amidst much chatter and laughter the table was cleared, the red clothspread in place of the white, and the domino-box reached down from thekitchen mantelpiece. The serious business of the evening had begun.

  Mr. Brunger had only one evening a week at home, and this he liked todivide between his family and his favourite game, giving the major partof his attention to the game.

  At one time he had been in the habit of asking in some friend oracquaintance to join him; but, since the arrival of Bindle, it hadbecome an understood thing that the same quartette should meet eachSaturday evening.

  Mrs. Brunger would make a pretence of crocheting. The product possessedone thing in common with the weaving of Penelope, in that it neverseemed to make any appreciable progress towards completion.

  Mr. Brunger devoted himself to the rigours of the game, and Elsie wouldflutter between the two players, bursting, but never daring, to give theadvice that her superior knowledge made valuable.

  Bindle kept the party amused, that is, except Mr. Brunger, who was toowrapped up in the bone parallelograms before him to be conscious ofanything else.

  Elsie would as soon have thought of missing her Sunday dinner as thoseSaturday evenings, and Mrs. Brunger soon found that a new and powerfulweapon had been thrust into her hand.

  "Very well, you go to bed at seven on Saturday," she would say, whichwas inevitably followed by an "Oh, mums!" of contrition and docility.

  "Out! You're beaten, uncle," cried Elsie, clapping her hands, andenjoying the look of mock mortification with which Bindle regarded thedominoe
s before him.

  Mr. Brunger leaned back in his chair, an expression of mild triumphmodifying his heavily-jowled countenance. It was remarkable howconsistently Mr. Brunger was victor.

  At that moment a loud and peremptory rat-tat-tat sounded down thepassage.

  "Now, I wonder who that is." Mrs. Brunger put down her crochet upon thetable and rose.

  "Don't you bring anyone in here, mother," ordered Mr. Brunger, fearfulthat his evening was to be spoiled, as he began to mix the dominoes.There was no music so dear to his soul as their click-clack, as theybrushed shoulders with one another.

  Mrs. Brunger left the room and, carefully closing the door behind her,passed along the short passage and opened the door.

  "I've come for my husband!"

  On the doorstep stood Mrs. Bindle, grim as Fate. Her face was white, hereyes hard, and her mouth little more than indicated by a line of shadowbetween her closely pressed lips. The words seemed to strike Mrs.Brunger dumb.

  "Your--your husband?" she repeated at length.

  "Yes, my 'usband." Mrs. Bindle's diction was losing its purity andprecision under the stress of great emotion. "I know 'e's here. Don'tyou deny it. I saw 'im come. Oh, you wicked woman!"

  Mrs. Brunger blinked in her bewilderment. She was taken by surprise atthe suddenness of the assault; but her temper was rising under thisinsulting and unprovoked attack.

  "What's that you call me?" she demanded.

  "Taking a woman's lawful wedded 'usband----" began Mrs. Bindle, when shewas interrupted by Mrs. Brunger.

  "Here, come in," she cried, mindful that inside the house only those oneither side could hear, whereas on the doorstep their conversation wouldbe the property of the whole street.

  Mrs. Bindle followed Mrs. Brunger into the parlour. For a moment the twowomen were silent, whilst Mrs. Brunger found the matches, lighted thegas, and lowered the blind.

  "Now, what's the matter with you? What's your trouble?" demanded Mrs.Brunger, with suppressed passion. "Out with it."

  "I want my 'usband," repeated Mrs. Bindle, a little taken aback by thefierceness of the onslaught.

  "An' what have I got to do with your husband, I should like to know?"

  "He's here. You're encouraging him, leading him away from----" Mrs.Bindle paused.

  "Leadin' him away from what?" demanded Mrs. Brunger.

  "From me!"

  "Leadin' him away, am I?--leadin' him away, I think you said?" Mrs.Brunger placed a hand on either hip and thrust her face forward, causingMrs. Bindle involuntarily to start back.

  "Oh! you needn't be afraid. I'm not goin' to hit you. Leadin' him awaywas what you said." Mrs. Brunger paused dramatically, and leaned backslightly, as if to get a more comprehensive view of her antagonist."Well, he must be a pretty damn short-sighted fool to want leadin' awayfrom a thing like you. I'd run hell-hard if I was him."

  The biting scorn of the words, the insultingly contemptuous tone inwhich they were uttered, for a moment seemed to daze Mrs. Bindle; butonly for a breathing space.

  Making a swift recovery, she turned upon her antagonist a stream ofaccusation and reproach.

  She told how a fellow-worshipper at the Alton Road Chapel had witnessedthe return of Bindle the night of the altercation in the front garden.She accused mother and daughter of unthinkable crimes, bringingScriptural quotation to her aid.

  She confused Fulham and Hammersmith with Sodom and Gomorrah. She calledupon an all-seeing Providence to purge the district in general, andArloes Road in particular, of its pestilential populace.

  She traced the descent of Mrs. Brunger down generations of infamy andsin. She threatened her with punishment in this world and the next. Shetold of Bindle's neglect and wickedness, and cast him out into thetooth-gnashing darkness. She trampled him under foot, arranged thatProvidence should spurn him and his associates, and consign them all toeternal and fiery damnation.

  Gradually she worked herself up into a frenzy of hysterical invective.Little points of foam formed at the corners of her mouth. Her bonnethad slipped off backwards, and hung by its strings round her neck. Herright-hand glove of biscuit brown had split across the palm.

  Mrs. Bindle had lost all control of herself.

  "He's here! He's here! I saw him come! You Jezebel! You're hiding him;but I'll find him. I'll find him. You--you----"

  With a wild, hysterical scream, she darted to the door, tore it open,dashed along the passage, and burst into the kitchen.

  "So I've caught you with the Jez----" She stopped as if petrified.

  Mr. Brunger had just played his last domino, and was sitting back in hischair in triumph. Elsie, one arm round her father's neck, was laughingderisively at Bindle, who sat gazing with comical concern at fivedominoes standing on their sides facing him.

  All three heads jerked round, and three pairs of widened eyes gazed atthe dishevelled, white-faced figure, standing looking down at them withthe light of madness in its eyes.

  "Oo-er!" gasped Elsie, as her arms tightened round her father's neck,almost strangling him.

  "Grrrrmp," choked Mr. Brunger, dropping his pipe on to his knees.

  Bindle started up, overturning his chair in the movement. His eyes wereblazing, his lips were set in a firm line, and his hands were clenchedconvulsively at his sides.

  "You--you get out of 'ere!" the words seemed to burst from himinvoluntarily, "or----"

  For one bewildered moment, Mrs. Bindle stared at him, in her eyes a lookin which surprise and fear seemed to strive for mastery. Her gazewandered on to the frightened girl clutching her father round the neck,and then back to Bindle. She turned as suddenly as she had entered,cannoned off Mrs. Brunger, who stood behind her, and stumbled blindlyalong the passage out into the street.

  Mrs. Brunger followed, and closed the front-door behind her. When shereturned to the kitchen, Bindle had picked up his chair and resumed hisseat. His hands were trembling slightly, and he was very white.

  "She--she ain't been well lately," he muttered huskily. "I----"

  "Now, mother, where's the beer? I'm feeling a bit thirsty;" and afterthis unusually lengthy speech, Mr. Brunger proceeded to shuffle thedominoes with an almost alarming vigour, whilst Elsie, wonder-eyed and alittle pale, sat on the arm of her father's chair glancing covertly atBindle.

  That night, when he returned home, Bindle found laid out on the kitchentable, a bottle of beer, a glass, two pieces of bread and butter, apiece of cheese and a small dish of pickled onions.

  "Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered, at the sight of this unusual attention."Wonders'll never cease," and he proceeded to unscrew the stopper of thebeer-bottle.

  The incident of the Brungers was never subsequently referred to betweenthem; but Mrs. Bindle gave herself no rest until she had unmasked thecause of all the trouble.

  Mrs. Stitchley was persuaded to see the reason why she should withdrawfrom the Alton Road Chapel Temperance Society, the reason being ahalf-quartern bottle of gin, from which she was caught imbibing at amagic-lantern entertainment,--and it was Mrs. Bindle who caught her.

  THE END

  * * * * *

  Transcriber's Note: Punctuation has been normalized. On page 245, theword "mumured" in the original text has been changed to "murmured".