As the hours sped, Bindle remained silent and Sallie was content to
devote herself to the car. Snug in one of Carruthers' motor coats,
Bindle devoured with his eyes everything he saw; but what a changed
Bindle. There was no cracking jokes, or passing remarks with
passers-by. He did not even look at a public-house. Instinctively he
had adapted himself to his environment.
"I think he's the most perfect gentle-person I've met," Sallie had once
said.
After dinner Bindle became more conversational. It was an evening when
the silence could be heard. In the distance was an occasional moan of a
train, or the bark of a dog; but nothing else. The sky was clear, the
sun was spilling itself in deep gold upon the landscape. The dinner had
been good, and within us all was a feeling of content.
"How is Mrs. Bindle?" enquired Sallie of Bindle.
"Oh jest ordinary like, miss. 'Er soul still gives 'er a lot o'
trouble."
"Don't you think," said Sallie with that smile of hers which seemed to
disarm her remark of the criticism it contained, "that you sometimes
tease her too much?"
Bindle's grin faded. "I been thinkin' that too, miss," he said
seriously. "But some'ow the things seem to come out, an' I don't mean
'er no 'arm really, miss."
"I'm sure you don't," Sallie hastened to say.
"Well, take last night, for instance," said Bindle. "We was talkin'
about the German Corpse Factory. I'd been readin' to 'er from the paper
'ow they turned the poor devils wot 'ad died doin' their bit to kill our
chaps into marjarine, candles, oils for motor-cars, and that sort o'
stuff. We was 'aving supper an' I 'appens to say quite innocent like:
'If you an' me was 'Uns, Lizzie and poor ole 'Earty 'ad died for 'is
country, a thing wot 'Earty never will do if 'e can 'elp it, we might be
a'spreadin' of 'im on this 'ere bread, and that there candle might be a
bit of 'Earty an' us not knowin' it.' Well, there ain't much 'arm in
that miss, is there? Yet she said I'd spoilt 'er supper, an' she pushed
the salmon away from 'er an' said I wasn't fit to live with, an' that
I'd got a dirty mind."
"J.B.," said Windover. "My sympathies are entirely with Mrs. Bindle.
Your remark was extremely inappropriate."
Bindle looked round him from one to another. "Well, sir," he
expostulated, "wasn't I right?"
"It was not a question of right, J.B.," said Windover, with mock
severity. "It was a question of tact."
"Tack!" said Bindle. "'Adn't I taken 'ome a tin of salmon, and when the
breeze started didn't I whistle 'er favourite 'ymn _Gospel Bells_? Look
'ere, sir, I ain't got much to learn in the way of tack wi' women."
"You see," said Sallie gently, "a remark like that sometimes turns
people against their food."
"Yes, miss," said Bindle, "that may be; but if you're a German you never
know what you're spreadin' on your bread. It may be your uncle, or it
may be somebody else's uncle, an' that's worse still."
"Mr. Bindle," cried Sallie, "if you say another word about anything so
horrible I shall--I shall--well, I shall drive on and leave you alone in
the field."
"I'm sorry, miss," said Bindle with great seriousness. "I didn't know
that you--that you----"
"That I was like Mrs. Bindle," interpolated Sallie.
"Good Lord! miss, you ain't like 'er."
"Well, let's change the subject," said Sallie smiling, "or I shan't be
able to eat for a week."
"But it didn't really spoil 'er supper, miss," said Bindle earnestly.
"She finished the salmon."
For some time we continued to smoke in silence.
"Funny thing, religion," remarked Bindle at last, a propos of nothing;
"it seems to get different people different ways. Now 'Earty and Mrs.
B., they seem to think Gawd is near 'em in that smelly little chapel o'
theirs; as for me this is what makes me think o' Gawd." And Bindle
waved the hand holding his cigar to embrace everything about us.
"But why," enquired Windover wickedly, "should a cigar make you feel
nearer to God?"
Bindle turned to Windover and looked him straight in the eyes.
"I wasn't jokin', sir," he said simply.
"I beg your pardon, J.B.," and there was a something in Windover's tone
which showed that he regarded the reproof as merited.
"If I was startin' a religion," continued Bindle, "I'd 'ave people go
out in the country, an' kneel down in a field, an' look up at the sky
when the sun was shinin'. They'd get a better idea o' Gawd than wot
'Earty and Mrs. B.'s got."
"You're a sun-worshipper then," said Sallie.
"Jest fancy anyone who made all this," Bindle's eyes roamed about him,
"wantin' to grill a poor cove like me because I ain't done all the
things I ought to a' done."
"But," said Sallie, "don't you think that everybody has their own idea
of God?"
"Yes, miss," said Bindle. "But they want to ram their own ideas down
everybody else's throat. I see in the paper the other day, when we
brought a Zepp. down, that they buried all the poor chaps wot was burnt
together. They're 'Uns," he added; "but you can't 'elp feelin' sorry
for wot they 'ad to suffer. They 'ad a clergyman an' a Catholic priest,
to read the burial service over them. The papers said the priest was
there in case some of the dead 'Uns was Catholics. It looks as if a
chap 'adn't got a chance of goin' to heaven unless 'e sort of got a
ticket from the parson of 'is own church."
Someone has described Anatole France as "a pagan preoccupied with
Christ." The same description applies to Joseph Bindle. He cannot keep
long off the subject of religion, and in all his comments there seems to
be the same instinctive groping for light.
"'Earty reminds me of a cove I used to know wot never seemed to get
thirsty except when 'e saw a pub; well, 'Earty never seems to feel
religious except when 'e sees a chapel, then it sort o' comes over 'im.
If 'e really feels 'e wants to pray, why can't 'e kneel down beside 'is
own 'taters. If there's a Gawd, 'e's just as much in a greengrocer's
shop as in a dirty little tin chapel, that's wot I says." Bindle looked
round as if defying contradiction.
"I think you are right," said Sallie; "but you must not forget that Mr.
Hearty does not share your views, any more than you share his. If
religion helps people to do good, it doesn't much matter when they get
it, or where they get it from."
"Yes, miss, but does it 'elp? You remember when the Lusitania went
down, well there was a pretty good scrap round Fulham way. One night
they went for a poor chap wot 'ad got a German name, an' they wrecked
'is shop. They'd jest got 'old o' 'im, when a big chap comes up wot's
done time more'n once an' tells 'em to chuck it.
"'But 'e's an 'Un,' yells the crowd.
"'Yus, but there's only one o' 'im and there's 'undreds o' you,' says
Bill, an' as they wouldn't chuck it Bill let fly, an' there was a pretty
old mess."
There was silence for a full minute broken at last by Bindle.
"Don't you think Gawd likes a man to do wot Bill did, miss?" enquired
Bindle ingenuously.
"I am sure he did," said Sallie, "and what did you do?"
"Oh, I got a black eye, an' Mrs. B. said she was more sure than ever
that 'ell was waitin' for me.
"Wot does me about religion," continued Bindle after a pause, "is wot
people'll swallow. There's Mrs. B. now: she can't take a pill without a
bucket o' water an' about a dozen tries, looks like an 'en 'avin' a
drink, she does; yet tell 'er it's religion an' she'd swallow anythink,
an' make believe she likes it. If that whale 'adn't been religious,
'e'd never 'ave got Jonah down."
Bindle paused and for a few moments watched a trail of white smoke from
a distant train.
"There was a cove somewhere in the bible called 'Fairy.'"
"Pharaoh, King of Egypt," murmured Windover.
"That's 'im, sir," cried Bindle. "Well look 'ow they say Gawd treated
'im."
"I'm afraid I've forgotten," I said with guile.
"Well," began Bindle, settling himself down for a story, "'E took to
collectin' Jews, sort o' got 'old of all there was in the market, same
as them Americans wi' food. One day the Jews got a-talkin' to each
other about 'ome, though I never see a Jew yet wot wanted to get 'ome
when 'e could stay in someone else's backyard."
Bindle paused to suck vigorously at his cigar, which showed signs of
going out.
"Pharaoh said there wasn't nothin' doin', an' they couldn't go. Though
'ow anyone can want to keep a Jew wot is willin' to go 'ome does me.
"Then the Jews prayed to Gawd, and 'E made Pharaoh say 'e'd let 'em go.
Then 'E 'ardened Pharaoh's 'eart an' started givin' Pharaoh beans."
"Was it not boils?" murmured Windover, examining the tip of his
cigarette with great intentness.
"Maybe, sir. Well, first Gawd made Pharaoh agree to let the Jews catch
the next bus, then 'E strafed 'im, 'ardening the poor ole chap's 'eart
till 'e didn't know where 'e was. Wot I say is it wasn't sportin'."
"I'm afraid you cannot judge bible history by Queensberry rules," said
Windover.
"It's like lettin' a bird go and then pullin' it back by a bit o' string
tied to its leg. Poor ole Pharaoh couldn't 'elp 'isself with Gawd
a-'ardenin' of 'is 'eart. That's wot I don't like."
"Your theology is a trifle unconventional, I fear," said Windover.
"Where did you learn about Pharaoh?"
"Yer can't live wi' Mrs. B., sir, without pickin' up a lot about 'eaven
an' 'arps an' things," was the reply.
"Go on, Mr. Bindle," said Sallie.
"Well, miss," proceeded Bindle. "There's somethink about visitin' sins
on children an' grand-children. I 'ad that out with 'Earty one night.
'Earty don't like talkin' religion wi' me. 'E says I ain't got no
faith."
"What happened?" Sallie enquired.
"Well, I asked 'Earty why Gawd should punish a man for wot 'is father
did."
"'Because,' says 'Earty, ''e 'ad an 'ard 'eart, and wouldn't believe in
Gawd.'
"'Wot 'ud you say, 'Earty,' I says, 'if the police was to pinch you
'cause your father flitted without 'avin' paid 'is rent?' O' course
'Earty says nothink to that; but mutters that we can't understand the
ways o' Gawd.
"Them ain't the ways of Gawd, it's the things these chaps says about
'Im. When you're strong, yer don't go knockin' over things wot can't
'it back. I knew a bruiser once, an' 'e was as gentle as a lamb. I
seen a chap want 'im to fight, an' 'e wouldn't, 'cause 'e was afraid of
'urtin'."
Bindle paused to relight his cigar, then when it was once more in full
blast he continued:
"Then they tells yer to love yer neighbours as yourself. I'd like 'em
to look out of our window when Sandy 'Iggins an' 'is missus is scrappin'
in their back-yard. No," he remarked meditatively, "a religion like
that's wasted on Fulham."
That is just Bindle, bringing down the divine to the level of men's
eyes: and raising the earthly to the mountain tops.
It was nearly one o'clock on Sunday morning when the car slid from the
Fulham road into the street that leads to Fenton Street. When we pulled
up, Bindle slipped out of Carruthers' overcoat and got down. As he said
good-night to Sallie we heard him whisper:
"I never 'ad a day like this before, miss."
We continued on our way in silence. When Sallie dropped me into a
passing taxi, Windover remarked:
"I hope I shall be dead when Democracy discovers all it has been
denied."