MILLIE'S WEDDING
"It don't seem right, some'ow," muttered Bindle, as he stood before
the oval mirror of what a misguided Fulham tradesman had catalogued as
"an elegant duchesse dressing-table in walnut substitute." "A
concertina-'at don't seem jest right for a weddin'!"
Bindle readjusted the crush-hat that had come to him as part of the
properties belonging to the Oxford Adventure. He tried it on the back
of his head, over his eyes and at the Sir David Beatty Angle.
"Oh, get out of the way, do! We shall be late." Mrs. Bindle, in
petticoat and camisole, pushed Bindle aside and took her place in
front of the mirror. "Anybody would think you was a woman, standing
looking at yourself in front of the glass. What'll Mr. Hearty say if
we're late?"
"You need never be afraid of what 'Earty'll say," remarked Bindle
philosophically, "because 'e'll never say anythink wot can't be
printed in a parish magazine."
Mrs. Bindle sniffed and continued patting her hair with the palm of
her hand. Bindle still stood regarding his crush-hat regretfully.
"You can't wear a hat like that at a wedding," snapped Mrs. Bindle;
"that's for a dress-suit."
Bindle heaved a sigh.
"I'd a liked to 'ave worn a top 'at at Millikins' weddin'," he
remarked with genuine regret; "but as you'd say, Mrs. B.," he
remarked, regaining his good-humour, "Gawd 'as ordained otherwise, so
it's a 'ard 'at for J.B. to-day."
"Remember you're going to chapel, Bindle," remarked Mrs. Bindle, "and
it's a sin to enter the House of God with blasphemy upon your lips."
"Is it really?" was Bindle's only comment, as he produced the hard hat
and began to brush it with the sleeve of his coat. This done he took
up a position behind Mrs. Bindle, bent his knees and proceeded to fix
it on his head, appropriating to his own use such portion of the
mirror as could be seen beneath Mrs. Bindle's left arm.
"Oh, get away, do!" Mrs. Bindle turned on him angrily; but Bindle had
achieved his object, and had adjusted his hat at what he felt was the
correct angle for weddings. He next turned his attention to a large
white rose, which he proceeded to force into his buttonhole. This time
he took up a position on Mrs. Bindle's right and, going through the
same process, managed to get the complete effect of the buttonhole
plus the hat. He next proceeded to draw on a pair of canary-coloured
wash-leather gloves. This done he picked up a light cane, heavily
adorned with yellow metal and, Mrs. Bindle having temporarily left the
mirror, he placed himself before it.
"Personally myself," he remarked, "I don't see that Charlie'll 'ave a
sportin' chance to-day. Lord! I pays for dressin'," he remarked,
popping quickly aside as Mrs. Bindle bore down upon him. "You ought to
be a proud woman to-day, Mrs. B.," he continued. "There's many a fair
'eart wot'll flutter as I walks up the aisle." Mrs. Bindle's head,
however, was enveloped in the folds of her skirt, which she was
endeavouring to assume without rumpling her hair.
"Ah! Mrs. B.," Bindle said reprovingly, "late again, late again!" He
proceeded to bite off the end of a cigar which he lit.
"Don't smoke that cigar," snapped Mrs. Bindle.
"Not smoke a cigar at a weddin'!" exclaimed Bindle incredulously.
"Then if you can't smoke a cigar at a weddin', when the 'ell can you
smoke one."
"Don't you use those words at me," retorted Mrs. Bindle. "If you smoke
you'll smell of smoke in the chapel."
"The only smell I ever smelt in that chapel is its own smell, and that
ain't a pleasant one. Any'ow, I'll put it out before I gets to the
door. I'm jest goin' to 'op round to see Millikins."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," cried Mrs. Bindle with decision. "You
mustn't see a bride before she appears at the chapel."
Bindle stopped dead on his way to the door and, turning round,
exclaimed, "Mustn't wot?"
"You mustn't see a bride before she appears at the chapel or church.
It isn't proper."
"Well, I'm blowed!" cried Bindle. "You mean to tell me that Charlie
Dixon ain't goin' to nip round and 'ave a look at 'er this mornin'?"
"Certainly not," said Mrs. Bindle.
"But why?" persisted Bindle.
"Because it's not proper; it's not the right thing to do," replied
Mrs. Bindle, as she struggled into her bodice.
"Now ain't that funny," said Bindle. "I suppose it all come about
because they was afraid the chap might sort o' funk it and do a bunk,
not likin' the looks o' the gal. Any'ow that ain't likely to 'appen
with Millikins. The cove wot gets 'er, 'as got a winner."
"Thought you didn't believe in marriage," said Mrs. Bindle acidly.
"I don't, Mrs. B.," replied Bindle. "Leastways the marriages wot are
made in the place where they don't play billiards; but this little one
was made in the Putney Cinema Pavilion. I made it myself, and when
J.B. takes a thing in 'and, it's goin' to be top 'ole. Then," he
proceeded after a pause, "Millikins 'as got me to look after 'er. If
'er man didn't make 'er 'appy, I'd skin 'im; yes, and rub salt in
afterwards."
There was a grimness in Bindle's voice that caused Mrs. Bindle to
pause in the process of pinning a brooch in her bodice.
"Yes, Mrs. B.," continued Bindle, "that little gal means an 'ell of a
lot to me, I----"
Mrs. Bindle looked round, a little startled at a huskiness in Bindle's
voice. She was just in time to see him disappear through the
bedroom-door. When she returned to the looking-glass, the face that
was reflected back to her was that of a woman in whose eyes there was
something of disappointment and cheated longing.
Mrs. Bindle proceeded with her toilet. Everything seemed to go wrong,
and each article she required appeared to have hidden itself away.
Finally she assumed her bonnet, a study in two tints of green,
constructed according to the inevitable plan upon which all her
bonnets were built, narrow of gauge with a lofty superstructure. She
gave a final glance at herself in the glass, and sighed her
satisfaction at the sight of the maroon-coloured dress with the bright
green bonnet.
When Mrs. Bindle emerged into Fenton Street, working on her white kid
gloves with feverish movement, she found Bindle engaged in chatting
with a group of neighbours.
"'Ere comes my little beetroot," remarked Bindle; at which Mrs. Rogers
went off into a shriek of laughter and told him to "Go hon, do!"
Mrs. Bindle acknowledged the salutations of her neighbours with a
frigid inclination of her head. She strongly objected to Bindle's
"holding any truck" with the occupants of other houses in Fenton
Street.
"Well, well, s'long, all of you!" said Bindle. "It ain't my weddin',
that's one thing."
There were cheery responses to Bindle's remarks, and sotto voce
references to Mrs. Bindle as "a stuck-up cat."
"Mind you throw that cigar away before we get to the chapel," said
Mrs. Bindle, still working at her gloves.
"Right-o!" said Bindle, as they turned into the New King's Road. He
waved the hand containing the cigar in salutation to the driver of a
passing motor-bus with whom he was acquainted.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Mrs. Bindle snappishly.
"Wouldn't do wot?" enquired Bindle innocently.
"Recognising common people when you're with me," was the response.
"But that was 'Arry Sales," said Bindle, puzzled at Mrs. Bindle's
attitude. "'E ain't common, 'e drives a motor-bus."
"What will people think?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"Oh! they're used to 'Arry drivin' a bus," replied Bindle. "They might
think it funny if he was to drive an 'earse."
"You know what I mean," said Mrs. Bindle. "Why can't you remember that
you're goin' to a wedding."
"Nobody wouldn't know it from your looks, Mrs. B.," commented Bindle.
"You look about as 'appy as 'Earty does when 'e 'ears there's goin' to
be an air-raid."
"Oh, don't talk to me!" snapped Mrs. Bindle; and they continued on
their way in silence. When about a hundred yards from the Alton Road
Chapel, Mrs. Bindle demanded of Bindle that he throw away his cigar,
which he did with great reluctance.
There was a small collection of women and children outside the chapel
doors.
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Bindle suddenly.
"Where?" enquired Bindle, looking first to the right and left, then on
the ground and finally up at the sky.
"I knew we should be late," said Mrs. Bindle. "There's the carriage."
At that moment a two-horse carriage bearing Mr. Hearty and Millie
passed by, and drew up at the entrance to the chapel. Mr. Hearty's
white kid-gloved hand appeared out of the window, fumbling with the
handle of the carriage. A moment later his silk hat, adorned with a
deep black band, appeared; still the carriage-door refused to open.
Suddenly as if out of sheer mischief it gave way, and Mr. Hearty
lurched forward, his hat fell off and rolled under the carriage. A
stray dog, that had been watching the proceedings, dashed for the hat,
just at the moment that Mr. Hearty hurriedly stepped out to retrieve
his headgear. Mr. Hearty's foot came down upon the dog's paw. The
animal gave a heart-rending howl, Mr. Hearty jumped, the people
laughed, and the dog continued to howl, holding up its wounded paw.
Mr. Hearty, however, was intent upon the recapture of his hat. With
his silver-mounted umbrella, he started poking beneath the carriage to
try and coax it towards him. An elderly gentleman, seeing the mishap,
had approached from the other side of the carriage and, with his
stick, was endeavouring to achieve the same object. The result was
that, as soon as one drew the hat towards him, the other immediately
snatched it away again.
"It's like a game of 'ockey," said Bindle who had come up at this
moment. "Go it, 'Earty, you got it!"
Mrs. Bindle tore at Bindle's arm, just as the benevolent gentleman
succeeded in securing Mr. Hearty's hat. Mr. Hearty dashed round to the
other side of the carriage, snatched his damaged headgear from the
hands of the stranger, and stood brushing it upon the sleeve of his
coat.
"Excuse me, sir!" said the stranger.
"But it's my hat," said Mr. Hearty, endeavouring to restore something
of its lost glossiness.
Mr. Hearty had apparently forgotten all about the bride, and it was
Bindle who helped Millie from the carriage, and led her into the
chapel. Mrs. Bindle reminded Mr. Hearty of his duty. Putting his hat
on his head, he entered the chapel door. It was Mrs. Bindle also who
reminded him of his mistake.
"It's a good omen, Uncle Joe," whispered Millie as she clung to
Bindle's arm.
"Wot's a good omen, Millikins?" enquired Bindle.
"That you should take me in instead of father," she whispered just as
Mr. Hearty bustled up and relieved Bindle.
There was a craning of necks and a hum of voices as Mr. Hearty,
intensely nervous, led his daughter up to the altar. Bindle followed,
carrying Mr. Hearty's hat and umbrella.
"My! don't 'is Nibs look smart," Bindle muttered to himself, as he
caught sight of Charlie Dixon standing at the further end of the
chapel.
The Rev. Mr. Sopley had come up from Eastbourne specially for the
occasion, Millie refusing to be married by Mr. MacFie. The ceremony
dragged its mournful course to the point where Millie and Charlie
Dixon had become man and wife. Mr. Sopley then plunged into a
lugubrious address full of dreary foreboding. He spoke of orphans,
widowhood, plague and famine, the uncertainty of human life and the
persistent quality of sin.
"'E ain't much at marrying," whispered Bindle to Mr. Hearty; "but 'e
ought to be worth a rare lot for funerals." Mr. Hearty turned and
gazed at Bindle uncomprehendingly.
It was Bindle who snatched the first kiss from the bride, and it was
he who, in the vestry, lightened the depressing atmosphere by his
cheerfulness. Mrs. Hearty in mauve and violet dabbed her eyes and beat
her breast with rigid impartiality. Mr. Hearty strove to brush his hat
into respectability.
Millie, clinging to her soldier-husband, stood with downcast eyes.
Bindle looked at her with interest, as she stood a meek and charming
figure in a coat and skirt of puritan grey, with a toque of the same
shade.
Mr. Sopley shook hands mechanically with everybody, casting his eyes
up to heaven as if mournfully presaging the worst.
"About the gloomiest ole cove I ever come across," whispered Bindle to
Mrs. Hearty, whereat she collapsed upon a seat and heaved with silent
laughter.
It was Bindle who broke up the proceedings.
"Now then, Charlie, 'op it, I'm 'ungry!" he said; and Charlie Dixon,
who had seemed paralysed, moved towards the vestry door.
It was Bindle who held on Mr. Hearty's hat when he entered his
carriage, and it was Bindle who heaved and pushed Mrs. Hearty until
she was able to take her place beside her lawful spouse.
It was Bindle who went back and captured the vague and indeterminate
Mr. Sopley, and brought him in the last carriage, that he might
participate in the wedding-breakfast.
"Come along, sir," he said to the pastor. "Never mind about 'eaven,
let's come and cut ole 'Earty's pineapple, that'll make 'im ratty."
During the journey Bindle went on to explain that Mr. Hearty never
expected a guest to have the temerity to cut a pineapple when placed
upon his hospitable board.
"Is that so?" remarked Mr. Sopley, not in the least understanding what
Bindle was saying.
"It is," said Bindle solemnly; "you see, they goes back into stock."
"Ah-h-h-h!" remarked Mr. Sopley, gazing at the roof of the carriage.
"Clever ole bird this," muttered Bindle. "About as brainy as a
cock-sparrow wot's 'ad the wind knocked out of 'im."
When Bindle entered the Heartys' dining-room he found the atmosphere
one of unrelieved gloom. Mrs. Hearty was crying, Mr. Hearty looked
nervously solemn, Mrs. Bindle was uncompromisingly severe, and the
other guests all seemed intensely self-conscious. The men gazed about
them for some place to put their hats and umbrellas, the women
wondered what they should do with their hands. At the further end of
the room stood Millie and Charlie Dixon, Millie's hand still tucked
through her husband's arm. Never was there such joylessness as in Mr.
Hearty's dining-room that morning.
"'Ullo, 'ullo!" cried Bindle as he entered with Mr. Sopley. "Ain't
this a jolly little crowd!"
Millie brightened-up instantaneously, Charlie Dixon looked relieved.
Mr. Hearty dashed forward to welcome Mr. Sopley, tripped over Bindle's
cane, which he was holding awkwardly, and landed literally on Mr.
Sopley's bosom.
Mr. Sopley stepped back and struck his head against the edge of the
door.
"Look at 'earty tryin' to kiss ole Woe-and-Whiskers," remarked Bindle
audibly. Millie giggled, Charlie Dixon smiled, Mrs. Bindle glared, and
the rest of the guests looked either disapprovingly at Bindle, or
sympathetically at Mr. Hearty and Mr. Sopley. Mrs. Hearty collapsed
into a chair and began to undulate with mirth.
"Couldn't we 'ave an 'ymn?" suggested Bindle.
Mr. Hearty looked round from abjectly apologising to Mr. Sopley. He
hesitated a moment and glanced towards the harmonium.
"Uncle Joe is only joking, father," said Millie.
Mr. Hearty looked at Bindle reproachfully.
"Now then, let's set down," said Bindle.
After much effort and a considerable expenditure of physical force, he
managed to get the guests seated at the table.
At a sign from Mr. Hearty, Mr. Sopley rose to say grace.
Every one but Bindle was watching for the movement, and a sudden
silence fell on the assembly from which Bindle's remark stood out with
clear-cut emphasis.
"Ole 'Earty playing 'ockey with 'is top 'at under----" Then Bindle
stopped, looking about him with a grin.
Gravely and ponderously Mr. Sopley besought the Lord to make the
assembly grateful for what they were about to receive, and amidst a
chorus of "amens" the guests resumed their seats.
The wedding party was a small one. For once Mr. Hearty had found that
patriotism was not at issue with economy. The guests consisted of the
bridegroom's mother, a gentle, sweet-faced woman with white hair and a
sunny smile, her brother-in-law, Mr. John Dixon, a red-faced,
hurly-burly type of man, a genial, loud-voiced John Bull, hearty of
manner and heavy of hand, and half a dozen friends and relatives of
the Heartys.
At the head of the table sat Millie and Charlie Dixon, at the foot was
Mr. Sopley. The other guests were distributed without thought or
consideration as to precedence. Bindle found himself between Mrs.
Dixon and Mrs. Hearty. Mrs. Bindle was opposite, where she had
planted herself to keep watch. Mr. Hearty sat next to Mrs. Dixon,
facing Mr. Dixon, whose uncompromising stare Mr. Hearty found it
difficult to meet with composure.
Alice, the maid-servant, reinforced by her sister Bertha, heavy of
face and flat of foot, attended to the wants of the guests.
The meal began in constrained silence. The first episode resulted from
Alice's whispered enquiry if Mr. Dixon would have lime-juice or
lemonade.
"Beer!" cried Mr. Dixon in a loud voice.
Alice looked across at Mr. Hearty, who, being quite unequal to the
situation, looked at Alice, and then directed his gaze towards Mr.
Sopley.
"I beg pardon, sir?" said Alice.
"Beer!" roared Mr. Dixon.
Everybody began to feel uncomfortable except Bindle, who was watching
the little comedy with keen enjoyment.
"We--we----" began Mr. Hearty--"we don't drink beer, Mr. Dixon."
"Don't drink beer?" cried Mr. Dixon in the tone of a man who has just
heard that another doesn't wear socks. "Don't drink beer?"
Mr. Hearty shook his head miserably, as if fully conscious of his
shortcomings.
"Extraordinary!" said Mr. Dixon, "most extraordinary!"
"Well, I'll have a whisky-and-soda," he conceded magnanimously.
Mr. Hearty rolled his eyes and cast a languishing glance in the
direction of Mrs. Bindle.
"We are temperance," said Mr. Hearty.
"What!" roared Mr. Dixon incredulously. "Temperance! temperance at a
wedding!"
"Always," said Mr. Hearty.
"Hmmmm!" snorted Mr. Dixon. He glared down the length of the table as
if the guests comprised a new species.
Alice repeated her question about the lemonade and lime-juice.
"I should be sick if I drank it," said Mr. Dixon crossly. "I'll have a
cup of tea."
"'E's like me, mum," said Bindle to Mrs. Dixon who was greatly
distressed at the occurrence, "'e likes 'is glass of beer and ain't
none the worse for it."
Mrs. Dixon smiled understandingly.
The meal continued, gloomily silent, or with whispered conversations,
as if the guests were afraid of hearing their own voices.
Bindle turned to Mrs. Hearty. "Look 'ere, Martha!" he cried. "We ain't
a very cheer-o crowd, are we? Ain't you got none of them naughty
stories o' yours to tell jest to make us laugh."
Mrs. Hearty was in the act of conveying a piece of chicken to her
mouth. The chicken and fork dropped back to the plate with a jangle,
and she leaned back in her chair, heaving and wheezing with laughter.
"Look 'ere, sir!" said Bindle, addressing Mr. Sopley, who temporarily
withdrew his eyes from the ceiling. "I 'ad a little argument with a
cove the other day, as to where this 'ere was to be found. I said it's
from the Bible, 'e says it's from _The Pink 'Un_."
Bindle looked round to assure himself that he had attracted the
attention of the whole table.
"Now this is it. 'The Lord said unto Moses come forth, and 'e come
fifth an' lorst the cup.'"
Mrs. Dixon smiled, Millie and Charlie Dixon laughed; but Mr. Dixon
threw himself back in his chair and roared. Mr. Hearty looked
apprehensively at Mr. Sopley, who regarded Bindle with uncomprehending
eyes.
"You've lost your money, Mr. Bindle, you've lost your money; it's _The
Pink 'Un_, I'll bet my life on it," choked Mr. Dixon. "Best thing I've
heard for years, 'pon my soul it is!" he cried.
"Mr. Bindle, I'm afraid you are a very naughty man," said Mrs. Dixon
gently.
"Me, mum?" enquired Bindle with assumed innocence. "Me naughty? That's
jest where you're wrong, mum. When I die, it ain't the things I done
wot I shall be sorry for; but the things wot I ain't done, and as for
'Earty, 'e'll be as sorry for 'imself as Ginger was when 'e got a
little dose o' twins."
"Bindle, remember there are ladies present!" cried the outraged Mrs.
Bindle from the other side of the table.
"It's all right, Mrs. B.," said Bindle reassuringly. "These was
gentlemen twins."
The meal progressed solemn and joyless. Few remarks were made, but
much food and drink was consumed. Bindle made a point of cutting both
the pineapples that adorned the table, delighting in the anguish he
saw on Mr. Hearty's face.
"If they only 'ad a drink," groaned Bindle, "it would sort o' wake 'em
up; but wot can you do on lemonade and glass-ginger. Can't even 'ave
stone-ginger, because they're sort of afraid it might make 'em tight."
When everyone had eaten to repletion, Mr. Hearty cast a glance round
and then, with the butt-end of a knife, rapped loudly on the table.
There was a sudden hush. Mr. Hearty looked intently at Mr. Sopley, who
was far away engaged in a contemplation of heaven, via the ceiling.
Bindle began to clap, which brought Mr. Sopley back to earth.
Seeing what was required of him, he rose with ponderous solemnity and,
in his best "grief-and-woe" manner, proceeded to propose the health of
the bride in a sepulchral voice, reminiscent of a damp Church of
England service in the country.
"Dear friends." He raised a pair of anguished eyes to the green and
yellow paper festoons that trailed from the electrolier above the
dining-table to various picture nails in the walls. He paused, his
lips moving slowly and impressively, then aloud he continued:
"Dear friends, of all the ceremonies that attend our brief stay in
this vale of tears, marriage is infinitely the most awful--("'Ear,
'ear!" from Bindle, and murmurs of "Hush!"). It is a contract entered
into--er--er--in the sight of heaven; but with--er--er--the Almighty's
blessing it may be a linking of hands of two of--er--God's creatures
as they pass down the--er--er--valley of the shadow of death to
eternal and lasting salvation." Mr. Sopley paused.
"'Ere, I say, sir," broke in Bindle. "Cheer up, this ain't a funeral."
There were murmurs of "Husssssssssh!" Mrs. Hearty began to cry
quietly. Mr. Hearty appeared portentously solemn, Mrs. Bindle looked
almost cheerful.
"We see two young people," resumed Mr. Sopley, having apparently
renewed his store of ideas from a further contemplation of the
ceiling, "on the threshold of life, with all its disappointments and
temptations, all its sin and misery, all its fears and misgivings. We
know that--we know--we have evidence of----" Mr. Sopley lost the
thread of his discourse, and once more returned to his contemplation
of Mr. Hearty's ceiling. Bindle beat his fist on the table; but was
silenced by a "Husssssssh" from several of the guests.
"Marriages," continued Mr. Sopley, "marriages are made in heaven----"
"I knew you was goin' to say that, sir," broke in Bindle cheerfully.
"'Ere, stop it!" he yelled, stooping down to rub his shin. "Who's
a-kickin' me under the table?" he fixed a suspicious eye upon a
winter-worn spinster in a vieux rose satin blouse sitting opposite.
"Marriage is a thing of terrible solemnity," resumed Mr. Sopley, "not
to be entered upon lightly, or with earthly thoughts. It is symbolical
of many things, sometimes terrible things--("'Ere, 'ere!" interposed
Bindle)--but throughout all its vicissitudes, in spite of all earthly
woes, desolation, and despair, it should be remembered that there is
One above to Whom all prayers should be directed, and in Whom all hope
should be reposed.
"In the course of the long life that the Lord has granted me, I have
joined together in holy wedlock many young couples--("Shame!" from
Bindle, and a laugh from Mr. Dixon),--and I hope our young friends
here will find in it that meed of happiness which we all wish them."
In spite of the entire lack of conviction with which Mr. Sopley wished
the bridal pair happiness, he resumed his seat amidst murmurs of
approval. His words were too solemn to be followed by applause from
anyone save Bindle, who tapped the table loudly with the butt-end of
his knife. Everyone looked towards Charlie Dixon, who in turn looked
appealingly at Bindle.
Interpreting the glance to mean that Bindle contemplated replying,
Mrs. Bindle kicked him beneath the table.
"'Ere, who's kicking me on the shins again?" he cried as he rose. Mrs.
Bindle frowned at him. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he remarked. "Now,
Charlie, you see what's goin' to 'appen to you now you're married.
Been kickin' my shins all the mornin', she 'as, me with 'various'
veins in my legs too."
Bindle looked at Millie; it was obvious that she was on the point of
tears. Charlie Dixon was gazing down at her solicitously. Mr. Dixon
was clearly annoyed. At the conclusion of Mr. Sopley's address he had
cleared his throat impressively, as if prepared to enter the lists.
Mrs. Dixon gazed anxiously at her son. Mr. Hearty looked at Mrs.
Bindle. Mrs. Bindle's eyes were fixed on Bindle. Bindle rose
deliberately.
"If ever I wants to get married again," began Bindle, looking at Mr.
Sopley, "I'll come to you, sir, to tie me up. It'll sort o' prepare me
for the worst; but I got to wait till Mrs. B. 'ops it with the lodger;
not 'ole Guppy," he added, "'e's gone."
Mr. Dixon laughed loudly; into Mrs. Bindle's cheeks there stole a
flush of anger.
"Well!" continued Bindle, "I promised Charlie that 'e shouldn't 'ave
no speeches to make, an' so I'm on my 'ind legs a-givin' thanks for
all them cheerful things wot we jest 'eard about. I ain't altogether a
believer in 'ow to be 'appy though married; but this 'ere
gentleman--(Bindle indicated Mr. Sopley by a jerk of his
thumb)--well, 'e can give me points. No one didn't ought to 'ave such
ideas wot ain't done time for bigamy. I can see now why there ain't no
givin' an' takin' in marriage up there;" and Bindle raised his eyes to
the ceiling. "I got a new respect for 'eaven, I 'ave.
"I don't rightly understand wot 'e means by 'a vale o' tears,' or
'walkin' 'and in 'and along the valley o' the shadow.' P'raps they're
places 'e's been to abroad. I seen a good deal o' wanderin' 'and in
'and along the river between Putney an' 'Ammersmith, I'm a special,
you know. I 'ad to ask the sergeant to change my dooty. Used to make
me 'ot all over, it did.
"There's one thing where you're wrong, sir." Bindle turned to Mr.
Sopley, who reluctantly brought his eyes down from the ceiling to gaze
vacantly at Bindle. "You said this 'ere marriage was made in 'eaven.
Well, it wasn't; it was made in Fulham."
Mrs. Dixon smiled. Mr. Dixon guffawed. Mr. Hearty looked anxiously
from Mrs. Bindle to Mr. Sopley.
"I made it myself, so I ought to know," proceeded Bindle. "I seen a
good deal o' them two kids." He looked affectionately at Millie. "An'
if they ain't goin' to be 'appy in Fulham instead o' wanderin' about
vales and valleys a-snivellin', you got one up against Joe Bindle.
"I remember once 'earin' a parson say that when we died and went to
the sort of Ole Bailey in the sky, we should be asked if we'd ever
done anybody a good turn. If we 'ad, then we'd got a sportin' chance.
When I'm dead I can see myself a-knockin' at them golden gates of
'eaven, sort o' registered letter knock wot means an answer's wanted.
When they ask me if I ever done anyone a good turn, I shall say I got
Millikins an' Charlie Dixon tied up.
"'Right-o, ole sport!' they'll say, ''op in.'
"An' I shall nip in quick before they can bang the gates to, like they
do on the tube. Then I shall see ole 'Earty, all wings an' whiskers,
a-playin' rag-time on an 'arp."
Again Mr. Dixon's hearty laugh rang out. "Splendid!" he cried.
"Splendid!"
"I seen a good deal o' marriage one way an' another. Me an' Mrs. B.
'ave been tied up a matter o' nineteen years, an' look at 'er. Don't
she look 'appy?"
Everybody turned to regard Mrs. Bindle.
"Then," continued Bindle, "there's 'Earty. Look at 'im. One of the
jolliest coves I know."
Mechanically all eyes were directed towards Mr. Hearty.
"It all depends 'ow you goes about marriage. There's one thing you got
to remember before you gets married: bottles is returnable, likewise
new-laid eggs wot ain't new laid; but you can't return your missus,
not even if you pays the carriage. It's a lifer, is marriage.
"I ain't goin' to make a long speech, because the pubs close at
'alf-past two, an' you'll all want to wash the taste o' this 'ere
lemonade out o' your mouths."
Bindle paused and looked at the now happy faces of Millie and Charlie
Dixon. For a moment he gazed at them, then with suddenness he resumed
his seat, conscious that his voice had failed him and that he was
blinking and swallowing with unnecessary vigour. The silence was
broken only by the loud thumping on the table of Mr. Dixon.
"Bravo!" he cried. "Bravo! one of the best speeches I've ever heard.
Excellent! Splendid!"
Everybody looked at everybody else, as if wondering what would happen
next, and obviously deploring Mr. Dixon's misguided enthusiasm.
Alice solved the problem by entering and whispering to Millie that the
taxi was at the door. This was a signal for a general movement, a
pushing back of chairs and shuffling of feet as the guests rose.
Charlie Dixon walked across to Bindle.
"Get us off quickly, Uncle Joe, will you," he whispered. "Millie
doesn't think she can stand much more."
"Right-o, Charlie!" replied Bindle. "Leave it to me."
"Now then, 'urry up, 'urry up!" he called out. "You'll lose that
train, come along. Once aboard the motor and the gal is mine! Now,
Charlie, where's your cap? I'll see about the luggage."
Almost before anyone knew what was happening, they were gazing at the
tail-end of a taxi-cab being driven rapidly eastward. When it had
disappeared over the bridge, Bindle turned away and found himself
blinking into the moist eyes of Mrs. Dixon. He coughed violently,
then, as she smiled through her tears, he remarked:
"Ain't I an ole fool, mum?" he said.
"Mr. Bindle," she said in a voice that was none too well under
control, "I think you have been their fairy-godmother."
"Well I am a bit of an ole woman at times," remarked Bindle,
swallowing elaborately. "Now I must run after my little bit of
'eaven, or else she'll be off with Ole Woe-and-Whiskers. It's
wonderful 'ow misery seems to attract some women."
He took two steps towards the door, then turning to Mrs. Dixon said:
"Don't you worry, mum, 'e'll come back all right. Gawd ain't a-goin'
to spoil the 'appiness of them two young kids."
Mrs. Dixon's tears were now raining fast down her cheeks.
"Mr. Bindle," she said, "you must be a very good man."
Bindle stared at her for a moment in astonishment, and then turned and
walked through the Heartys' private door.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "Fancy 'er a-sayin' that. I wonder
wot ole 'Earty 'ud think. Well, I'm blowed! 'Ere, come along, sir!" he
cried to Mr. Dixon. "It's a quarter past two, we jest got a quarter of
an hour;" and the two men passed down the High Street in the direction
of Putney Bridge.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Adventures of Bindle, by Herbert George Jenkins